


Cold Grip of Death

by Tuttle4077



Category: Hogan's Heroes (TV 1965)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-17 11:21:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 21,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28848228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tuttle4077/pseuds/Tuttle4077
Summary: It turns out Stalag 13 isn't as safe as we thought.
Kudos: 3





	1. The Cold Grip of Death

Cold. If there was one thing he hated, it was being cold. Oh sure, it was okay back home, he was used to it there. He could spend hour in the snow, always secure in the knowledge that he could simply go inside the house whenever he wanted, and wrap up in a nice, warm quilt by the fire, with a mug of hot chocolate. However. at Stalag 13, the 'toughest' POW camp in all of Germany, there was no such luxury. Instead, as soon as roll call was over, the only place to escape the cold was inside his freezing barracks, under a worn, ragged sheet that had the nerve to pose as a blanket.

There wasn't even any snow to make up for it all! Instead, the compound was a wasteland of ankle deep mud and freezing cold puddles.

Sergeant Andrew Carter scowled as he jumped in place to try and keep warm. The other men around him did the same, equally dreary expressions on their faces. Usually the normally cheerful sergeant would try to make the best of the situation, but he found himself strangely repulsed by the idea. He couldn't cheer up; he didn't want to cheer up; it was nicer to just be miserable.

"Achoo!"

Another reason to be miserable.

Colonel Hogan was sick. As much as they loved the colonel, Carter and the rest of the men had contemplated several times about putting him out of his- and their- misery. The colonel hated being sick and unknowingly took his frustration out on his men.

"Eh! What's taking so long Schultzy!" Corporal Newkirk hollered impatiently.

"I know nothing, nothing!" the shivering sergeant of the guard shouted. Carter grimaced and wrapped his arms around himself. Shucks, even Schultz, who was as blubbery as a whale, was shivering. The rest of them didn't stand a chance if they stood out there much longer.

Finally!

"Repooooooooort!"

Colonel Wilhelm Klink, Kommandant of this particular winter resort, marched out of his office and towards the men of barracks two. He was dressed in a thick overcoat, with a scarf wrapped snugly around his neck. He held a riding crop under his warmly gloved hands and Carter was sure he had thick wool socks on under his polished boots.

"Herr Kommandant, all present and accounted for!" Schultz reported.

"Very good. Now I suppose you're all wondering why you had to wait out here so long-"

"Not really. We all know what a cruel, cruel man you are Kommandant," Hogan said between pathetic sniffles.

Klink took it as a compliment and smiled. "Thank-you Hogan. I hope you keep that attitude for the next little while as General Burkhalter will be coming here to inspect Stalag 13."

Carter glanced at Hogan and noticed the curiosity playing on his face. He mentally prayed that for once, the colonel would let it alone so they could all go inside. He could barely feel his feet!

"Is that everything Kommandand?" Hogan sniffled, much to Carter's relief.

"I expect you all to be model prisoners for this inspection. It may turn into some sort of commendation, or even a promotion!" Klink said cheerfully.

"I'm very ha- ha- achoo! Sniff. I'm very happy for you Kommandant. Can we go now?"

Carter could see a touch of concern cross Klink's face but he doubted the German would act upon it. "Yes, yes. Diiiiiisss-missed!"

Carter slumped with relief and slowly turned towards the barracks. He straggled in behind the others and tried to push his way towards the stove. Abandoning the futile effort, Carter moved away from the crowd and threw himself onto his bed.

"I'm going to bed. Anyone wakes me up is going to be court-martialled," Hogan growled. The effect of the threat was completely destroyed when he violently sneezed and then sheepishly asked Kinch for a handkerchief. Taking the offered cloth, he disappeared into his office.

Carter shivered and huddled under his 'blanket', wrapping the thin fabric under his chin and tucking his feet in so they wouldn't stick out. "I hate this," he mumbled.

Corporal Louis LeBeau heard and frowned. Carter was always so happy. It was disturbing to see the young American so forlorn. "Don't worry André, it may be cold, but look on the bright side."

"What bright side?" Carter grumbled. "There is no silver lining. Winter has barely started and we're already freezing. Christmas is coming soon and we're all stuck in the middle of Germany. We're all cold, tired, dirty- stop me if you see a running theme here."

There were a few surprised looks exchanged. "You feeling alright Andrew?" Newkirk asked, concern filling his voice. Carter ignored him and rolled over to face the wall. Newkirk shot a worried glance at LeBeau. They both turned to Kinch, who simply shrugged, though he also looked worried. Newkirk knelt next to his friend- possibly his best friend in this hole they had to call home- and gently touched his shoulder. "If you need anything mate-"

"Just lemme alone," Carter muttered with a shiver.

"Right mate, if that's the way you want it." He got up and was suddenly overcome by how cold it was. "Blimey LeBeau! Stoke up that stove would ya!"

LeBeau glanced at the wood basket. There were only a few chunks of wood left. He looked up at Kinch who turned his gaze towards the colonel's office. Kinch let out a heavy sigh. "We're in for a cold stretch until the colonel can convince Klink to let us go out and chop more wood." After a moment of consideration, he threw a small piece into the stove. "Everyone better bundle up. There's not much else we can do until then."

There were a few grumbles, but everyone was too tired to make much of a fuss. Most followed Carter's lead and curled up in their beds. Others, like Newkirk and LeBeau, stayed close to the stove, soaking up what little warmth it offered.

The mood in the barracks was more subdued than usual, and it wasn't just the cold. Carter's unusually bad mood had done more to drag down the men's spirit than anything else. If not even Carter could be happy, the rest of them didn't stand much of a chance.

Carter didn't see much point in staying awake. Falling asleep wasn't going to be an easy task though when he was shaking so badly. Stubbornly wrapping his arms around himself, Carter waited for the veil of sleep to fall over him. "What we need," he muttered after a few minutes without success, "is a nice big explosion. That'd be warm."

"You and your ruddy explosions. Think they solve everything!" Newkirk smiled good-naturedly, trying to cheer the American up.

"Well, right now, I'd rather die in a nice hot explosion than die slowly by hypothermia."

"It is not _that_ cold André."

"Oh yeah. I forgot that's why I can barely feel my fingers."

"You're in a right jolly mood, aren't ya!" Newkirk had never heard him be so sarcastic. He hadn't even thought Carter knew what sarcasm was. Newkirk didn't like this at all. _He_ was the one that was supposed to be grumpy and Carter was the one who was supposed to cheer him up- not the other way around.

"Maybe it'll warm up later," LeBeau said hopefully. "Why don't you sleep for a while?"

"Gee, I wish _I_ had thought of that." The two corporals exchanged glances. Newkirk's expression soured. He was too cold and tired for this.

"Let 'im alone. If he wants to be grumpy over something as trifle as a little cold, there's nothing we can do about it."

That's right! Carter thought. Ignoring any further conversation, Carter tried to clear his head and take LeBeau's advice.

* * *

Warm. Gosh, it was nice to be warm.

Wait a minute. A moment ago, he was freezing his tail off!

Well, he wasn't one to complain. At least, not often. He definitely wasn't about to complain about being warm for once.

Carter opened his eyes and blinked in disbelief. Sitting up, he rubbed at his face and blinked again.

Corn. A whole field full.

He was obviously dreaming. But that was all right- he was sleeping after all.

A slow smile crossed his face. This wasn't just any field of corn. This was _his_ field. He'd recognize that scarecrow anywhere. Letting out a giddy whoop, Carter jumped to his feet. He didn't care if this was only a dream. He intended to enjoy it until he was dragged back into cold reality. Sucking in a deep breath, Carter revelled in the sweet smell of corn in the thick summer air. The familiar sounds and smells invigorated him and Carter took off through the maze of corn stalks, shedding his heavy bomber jacket and boots as he went.

The field stretched forever but not far enough for Carter. But he was just as happy when he reached the end of it. A big red barn sat cheerfully ahead. Carter ran past it, patting the rough wood as he went, and headed towards the stream that bubbled in the near distance. As soon as he reached it, he plopped himself at its bank and ran his hand through the cool water.

He was happily looking for frogs when a tall shadow fell over him. Looking behind him, he smiled and got up, brushing the dirt off his knees. He looked up at the tall, man before him and grinned. "Angry Rabbit!" he greeted his cousin brightly. He was met with a worried frown.

"What are you doing here Little Deer?" the older man asked.

"Dreaming! And boy, is this one a looloo! Everything is so real! I'll hate it when I have to wake up!"

"Why is that?"

Carter shrugged, not wanting to think about what his dreams had taken him away from. His cousin nodded with some understanding.

"I have not seen you in a long time, Little Deer."

"Well, you _have_ been dead for three years," Carter said as respectfully as he could. His cousin, who had left the States to join the Canadian army, had been shot down in the first few months of the war. He hadn't been lucky enough to become a POW as Carter had.

"Yes, I suppose that is true," his cousin laughed. A hint of sadness filled his eyes, but Carter could see Angry Rabbit try to hide it. It struck Carter as odd. Everything, including his cousin, seemed so real. But then again, he wasn't about to complain as long as it kept his mind off his predicament at Stalag 13. "And what have you done in those three years?"

Carter shrugged again and turned back to the stream. "Oh you know, this and that." He caught the look on Angry Rabbit's face from the corner of his eye. "I was going to go to school, but I got drafted instead." He laughed quietly to himself before continuing. "Your Little Deer Who Runs Swift and Sure Through Forest joined the air force."

Angry Rabbit laughed and clapped his hand on his cousin's shoulder. "That's all right. You never did run very Swift and Sure anyway," he teased.

"You sound like Newkirk."

"Who's that?"

"A friend. We're in the same prison camp. He's _almost_ as mean to me as you and Jack were," he grinned.

"We weren't mean!" Angry Rabbit protested. He paused and laughed. "Okay, so we were. But you got to join us when you were old enough. _You_ thought up some of our most evil plans- putting that stuff in the preacher's liquor, what was it?"

Carter shared the evil grin. "Tetramethylthionine chloride."

Angry Rabbit laughed. "Whatever it was. The poor man thought he was being punished for drinking."

"Well it made him quit, didn't it! Sunday sermons were a lot more lucid after that!"

"You said you were in a prison camp," Angry Rabbit said after a good laugh, quickly changing the tone of the conversation.

Carter tensed. "Yeah. Kinda like summer camp, but with barbed wire," he said lightly. "Hey, do you remember that one summer when we-"

"You don't like talking about it I see," Angry Rabbit interrupted.

"Well, I sorta went to sleep to get away from it.

"I mean, it's not like it's _horrible_ ," Carter continued when his cousin said nothing. "I've got some good friends there- Newkirk, Louie, Kinch. And the Colonel, he's great too. And heck, take away the wire and the guards and the dogs, it'd be really nice- in the summer anyway. But right now, it's winter and it's cold and we're all tired and hungry.

"You know what the Krauts have been feeding us?! Potato soup they call it. It's more like potato sludge!" He shivered at the thought of his last meal.

"I'm sure you made the best of it though, you always did."

Carter shrugged. "I guess. I usually do. But today… I dunno, I guess I'm just sick of it, that's all." He thought back on that morning somewhat sheepishly. "I guess my bad mood didn't help anyone out though. I practically bit Louie's head off, and he was only trying to help. He didn't deserve it, that's for sure."

Feeling a little dreary, Carter sat down and started playing in the water again. Angry Rabbit joined him. "I know what you mean. Sometimes I could get a little angry with the men in my unit." He caught Carter's raised eyebrow and laughed. "Okay, I'd get angry with them a lot! I wasn't named Angry Rabbit for nothing! But you know, it never really solved anything." He grinned, his thoughts swirling back in time. "There was this one kid, a daffy Canuck named Reagan. Whenever I'd really get going, he'd say something dumb on purpose afterwards to break the tension."

"That's like me," Carter reflected.

"It was a real blow when he didn't come back,quot; Angry Rabbit said quietly. quot;Our group practically fell apart without him. I guess his silliness kept us all from going insane."

Carter was quiet for a moment. Moving away from the stream, he rolled onto his back and looked up at the fluffy white clouds in the sky.

It was a well known fact at Stalag 13 that Carter was a little daft. Part of that was true, but part of it was an act. Carter knew he was a little blond, sometimes he'd say stupid things without knowing it, and he did have a tendency to babble. But more often than not, he acted the part. He purposefully let Newkirk rag on him to blow off a little steam. Deep down, he feared that if the Englishman didn't get to blow up every once and a while, he'd go crazy. He butchered the French language to give Louis the same release. He was like everyone's annoying kid brother.

He didn't mind. In fact, he was happy to do that for everyone. But he'd never _really_ thought it was important. After what Angry Rabbit had said however, he felt the weight of responsibility on his shoulders. He decided right then and there to shake himself out of his miserable funk. It was his job to make everyone else happy, or at least help to ease their troubles, and he couldn't do that if he was wallowing in self-pity.

"Aw heck," he said finally, "what's a little cold anyway? No reason to be a stick in the mud. Heck, everyone's just as tired and cold as I am. If I don't cheer them up, they'll probably stay grumpy until spring!" Jumping to his feet, Carter turned to his cousin and helped him up.

"I should probably wake up now. I need to apologize to a few people. And then I'm going to let Newkirk 'dazzle' me with his card tricks and then make fun of me when I can't figure it out!" He shook his cousin's hand. "See ya around."

"You can't Little Deer," Angry Rabbit said quietly.

"I can't what?"

Angry Rabbit looked back at him sadly. "I'm sorry..."

* * *

"Roll call! Everyone raus, raus!"

Sergeant Schultz threw open the door, letting in a blast of cold air- colder air, the barracks was already freezing. He yelled at the prisoners to get out of bed and ducked back outside to wait for them.

Newkirk yawned and hopped off his top bunk. He stretched as the other men filed past him. After working all the kinks out, he huddle in on himself and shivered. "Blimey it's cold!" he complained. Turning around, he tapped Carter on the shoulder. "Come on Andrew, rise and shine. You've 'ad your nap, now it's time to get up." Carter didn't answer. "Listen mate, I know you're cold, but you can't sleep the 'ole say away!" He poked him again. "Carter?"

"Come on Newkirk, Carter," LeBeau said, coming up beside them. "CARTER! WAKE UP!" LeBeau shouted, cupping his mouth with his hands.

"Knock it off mate. Maybe 'e's sick," Newkirk scolded. He shook his friend. Frustrated with getting no answer, he pushed on his friend's shoulder to roll him over.

His stomach clenched and the blood drained from his face.

Carter looked peacefully asleep, but was too still. His chest wasn't rising and falling with each breath as it should. Newkirk placed his hand in front of his friend's mouth but felt nothing. He looked at LeBeau who had also paled. He touched Carter's face. It felt as cold as ice.

"Come on Andrew! This isn't funny! Wake up!" Newkirk ordered.

The plea was in vain. Carter didn't wake up.

And he never would.

The End


	2. Watery Grave

It almost reminded him of home.

Fat rain drops splashed into the puddles that swamped the cobblestone roads. Street lamps and lighted windows cast an eerie glow on the darkened city blocks. The sounds and laughter that radiated from nearby hofbraus were muffled in the cold, wet air. Beside him, water gushed out of a drainpipe and into an overflowing barrel.

Newkirk flipped up the collar of his black overcoat and wiped the rain out of his eyes. He vainly tried to shake off the rain, but soon gave up. With the minor exception of his stay in Germany as a prisoner of war, he'd lived all his life in England- a most decidedly wet country. He knew ever kind of rain that existed and so he knew it was no use trying to stay dry in this kind. The only thing to do when this kind of rain showed up was to find a nice warm tavern and wait it out with a few drinks and fine female company.

Unfortunately for the English corporal, he was on a mission in enemy territory and couldn't indulge in that sort of thing. At least, not until he had the radio parts and had delivered them safely back to Stalag 13.

Reminding himself of his mission, Newkirk crept out of his dark alley and darted under the safe shelter of a doorway.

The mission was simple, if not a little risky. For almost a week now, the underground had been trying to pass along spare radio parts to the prisoners at Stalag 13. But so far, all their efforts and attempts had failed miserably. A week had been too long to be without a radio for Colonel Hogan, so he had 'volunteered' Newkirk to retrieve it from their contact in Hammelburg.

"Why me?!" Newkirk had protested.

"Quite simple Newkirk. To go out in that weather, you either have to be crazy or English-"

"Shucks Colonel, aren't those the same thing?" Carter had interjected with a goofy smile. Newkirk had shot him an dirty look.

The Colonel had just laughed. "I guess it is Carter. What do ya say Newkirk? Volunteer?"

"Do I have a ruddy choice?"

"Not really. But if you like, we can put it to a vote. All right boys, all those who want Newkirk to go, raise your hands." Everyone had to Newkirk's chagrin but not surprise. "Well?"

"Well, when you put it that way guv'nor, I suppose I volunteer."

Newkirk rolled his eyes as he recalled that conversation. Hogan was always 'volunteering' him. Well, when he caught pneumonia, the colonel would have no one to blame but himself.

Newkirk checked his watch. He had twenty minutes to weave through the city to his contact's home. Though he was dressed as a civilian, Newkirk decided to stick to the back alleys, flooded as they were. The colonel had been right- to go out in this weather, you either had to be crazy or English. Of course, that did mean no one would be outside to see him, but he'd better play it safe anyway.

Stepping out of his shelter, Newkirk dodged into the street and to the alley across the road.

A small grin played at his lips.

Yes, it was almost like home. It was funny how some things always stayed the same, even when he found himself far from the streets of England. He could well imagine himself in similar straights back home, dodging bobbies instead of Germans.

Newkirk grinned. As he ducked and darted his way through the city's alleys, his mind wandered back to happier times.

* * *

"Thank-you ladies and gentlemen! And now, for me next trick, I need a member of the audience to come up here and assist me." From the small stage Peter Newkirk scanned the crowd that filled the local pub and with a sly grin, picked out the pretty face he'd been eyeing all night. "You there." The lady blushed and pointed to herself in surprise. "Yes you, come up 'ere." With another blush, the young lady made her way up to the stage. Peter took her hand and pulled her up. "And what's your name then?"

"Elizabeth," she announced, shooting him a shy smile.

"No need to fret Elizabeth love. Just a bit o' magic," Peter assured her. Pulling out a deck of cards, the magician shuffled them and fanned them out in his hand. "Now me lady, pick a card, any card." It was a shameless trick, he knew. It wasn't really meant to please the crowd, only the lovely creature in front of him.

The young lady hesitated, touching several cards before finally pulling one out. "Now show it to the audience and then put it back anywhere you like." She smiled and turned to face the only half-interested audience to show them her card. Peter closed his eyes as she slipped it back into the pile. "All right then, we'll just shuffle these about, say the magic words- abracadabra, hocus-pocus and…" he flicked the stacks and smacked it. Then he pulled out a card. "Is this your card?"

A worried expression crossed Elizabeth's face and Peter had to fight to keep from laughing. "No," she finally apologized.

"Well, 'ow about this card?" he asked, pulling out another. Again, she shook her head. Peter scratched his head and checked both of his sleeves. "Well, that's the funniest thing, I-" he stopped and laughed. "Oh, I see where it went." Reaching behind her ear, he pulled out a card. She opened her eyes in shock as he showed it to her. "Is that your card?" She just blinked in surprise which elicited the laughter of the crowd.

"Why, yes, it is!" Suddenly she laughed with him and the rest of the crowd. "That's a wonderful trick! How did you do it?" She took the card to look at it closely and then handed it back to him.

"No me dear, that's for you. Now off you go," he said, shooing her on her way. The crowd applauded and Peter grinned. He knew they weren't clapping for him, but his shy volunteer. It didn't matter, either way, he was happy. At least they weren't throwing stuff at him.

"Thank-you ladies and gents. That's all for tonight, I'll be here all week!" A with that, Peter gave a exaggerated bow and hopped off the stage.

The noise in the pub grew louder as the small group that had actually watched all of his performance turned back to their drinks and conversations. Peter pushed his way through the crowded room to the bar.

"Another fine performance Newkirk," the bartender, Leo Stanley, said with a wry grin.

Newkirk rolled his eyes. "Thanks mate. Worthy of pay this time I 'ope."

Leo looked offended. "I _always_ pay you."

"All right, all right. But this time, don't let me drink it all."

"In that case," Leo said handed Peter a mug and filled it, "I suggest you drink it slowly mate."

Peter thanked him and turned his attention to the on goings of the pub, his eyes scanning the crowd for his lovely assistant. He scrunched his nose when he failed to find her.

"I tell you, that Hitler bloke is nothing but trouble!"

Peter looked over at the two men beside him. One was holding a newspaper, while the other just rolled his eyes and took another sip of his drink.

"Get off it mate. 'E ain't hurting no one. Just takin' back what was theirs to begin with."

"Oh sure, today the Rhineland, tomorrow France."

"France 'as the Maginot Line. 'Sides, what more could 'e want? We gave 'im the Rhineland, that belonged to 'im anyway. What more does 'e need?"

The first man grunted. "It's not about what 'e needs, it's about what 'e _wants_. I mean, look at everything 'e's done since he took over the ruddy place. Building an army, forming an air-"

"You're overreacting. It's not our problem anyway."

Peter turned away from the conversation and took a sip of his beer. The second chap was right. They had just given Hitler what had already been Germany's before the great war. Besides, after the licking Jerry had taken during that war, Peter highly doubted Germany would want to go up against Britain again.

Ignoring the argument going on beside him, Peter continued his search for his strawberry blonde prey. His eyes widened when they fell on someone else entirely.

Shrinking into his coat, he lowered his head and focused on his beer. "Go away, go away, go away…" he repeated quietly, hoping he wouldn't be seen.

"'Ey!"

Bloody 'ell.

Peter stiffened and turned, jumping off his stool. "'Ell Rawlings," he said cheerfully as the biggest man he had ever seen marched up to him. "'Ow's life treatin' you?"

Rawlings scowled and grabbed Peter by the collar. "Don't 'ello me mate. You owe me money!"

"Well, time are tough," Peter replied, loosening his jacket from the man's grip. "'Ow about a drink. Leo!" He grabbed a beer and handed it to the hulking man in front of him. Rawlings smacked it out of his hand.

"Funny 'ow you always 'ave money for beer, but none for your rent."

"Yes, that is rather odd, isn't it."

"I've already thrown your junk, what little there is, out on the street. But you owe me mum two months."

"Ah yes. 'Ow is your mum then?"

"Don't change the subject."

"And what subject were we on?"

"Money Newkirk. Now. Or I break your bleedin' nose."

"Ah, right, money." Peter patted his pockets. He looked down and grinned when he saw Rawlings follow his movement. Taking a deep breath, Peter's head shot up, along with his fist. He punched Rawlings right in the jaw. Not waiting for the bigger man's reaction, Peter bolted away, only to be blocked by two of Rawlings' friends. Peter pushed into them. A moment later, fists were flying from both sides. The rowdy patrons of the bar shouted and cheered before they too broke out into fights.

It took a few minutes, but eventually Peter managed to flatten his sparring partners. He ducked through the crowd, grinning ruefully at the chaos he'd caused. It was very unlikely that Leo would welcome him in again. His chances completely disappeared when a man was thrown through the window.

A whistle blew not too far away. Peter grimaced and raced to the door and slipped out. Rain assaulted him as he stepped out into the street. Down the alley, he could spot a small group of policemen running towards the pub. One shouted at him, but he didn't stick around to see what they wanted. Instead, he dodged down the alley and disappeared into the rainy night.

He didn't stop until he was sure no one was after him. Sighing, he leaned against a dirty doorway, out of the rain, and shook himself off. He ran a hand through his sopping wet brown hair and fished a cigarette out of his pocket. As he looked for a lighter, he groaned when he remembered Leo hadn't paid him. Figured he'd leave before he got any money.

Peter shrugged and cracked his knuckles. There was more than one way to 'earn' money.

* * *

Newkirk grinned. Yes, even though he was in Germany, not much had changed. He still got in too much trouble.

The rain still hadn't let up as he got closer to his objective. He only had one more street to cross. Then he would get the radio, go back to Stalag 13 and curl up in a nice warm blanket by the stove.

The thought warmed him and he almost forgot about the rain as he stepped out into the street.

He never saw the car.

* * *

Hans Drechsler would be the first to admit that he'd had too many beers that night. But it didn't matter. He could barely see the road through the rain anyway.

He definitely didn't see the black form stepping out into the street before it was too late.

His car hit something with a sickening crunch. Hans slammed on the brakes and brought his vehicle to a stop before stumbling out into the rain. He blinked and shook his head several times before his brain registered what had happened.

Gasping, he ran up to the unmoving heap that was crumpled on the road. It took a minute for him to realize it was a man. Biting his lip, he knelt down beside him and shook his shoulder. Nothing. Hans checked for any sort of reaction but when he found none, he checked the man's pulse.

Hans paled and started to shake. Feeling sick, he looked around and quickly jumped back into his car and sped off.

The rain continued to pour down, completely indifferent to the body lying in the street.


	3. One More Day

It was cold.

It always was.

He huddled in on himself and wrapped the great folds in his now too big uniform around his frighteningly thin body.

Other prisoners huddled close to him as the night wind whistled through the barely adequate shelter. He wasn't sure what to call it. A bunker? Perhaps a run down air-raid shelter. Either way, it was far too small to hold the hundred of men jammed into it. Body heat from the other prisoners was the only source of warmth in the cold, stone prison.

The door opened and men groaned in protest. A man walked in, and began picking his way through the other prisoners, rolling some over to see if they were dead. From the ones that were too weak to fight back, the new arrival took any extra clothing. From the dead, the new arrival took everything down to the underwear.

He closed his eyes. He couldn't watch. When the new man came to him, he just growled and held tightly to his thin blanket. The look in his eyes was formidable, even if his body was not. The new man grimaced and then moved on.

His stomach growled, but he ignored it. He'd find some food tomorrow.

Food was always scarce. That was the worst thing about being a prisoner of war. The hunger was constant. It gnawed at his stomach through the day and through the night. Much like the cold, it never let up.

Of course, others had turned to alternate measures to secure food sources. He shuddered. He didn't even want to think of that.

When his captors did think to feed their prisoners, it caused mass riots. Thirty thousand prisoners converged on a small pile of food- usually cabbage- fighting each other off. More than once, guards shot those they caught in the act of outright murder. (1)

Sighing, a task that almost took all the strength he had, he closed his eyes tightly. One more day. He just had to make it one more day.

That's what he always told himself. Ever since the day he had been marched in.

Just one more day.

Hold on one more day.

The one more day turned into another and another.

One more day of hunger. One more day of cold. One more day of lice.

Oh how he hated the lice. Great clouds of grey parasites would move from one body, usually dead, to another victim. They swarmed from head to ankles in a voracious quest for food. Ravenous and relentless, they drove their hosts to the verge of insanity. Wherever they feasted, they left giant red welts. (2)

He was tired. He just wanted to go home- see his wife and children. He wanted to laugh again as he always had. He wanted to sit by a warm fire with his little girl on his lap and a read her the fairy tales she loved so much.

One more day. He could make it. The Americans would march into Berlin soon and then the war would be over. Then he could go home.

One more day.

His mind started to drift. Good, he was falling asleep. Maybe he could dream himself away from this hellhole.

He was almost asleep when a guard burst through the door and ordered them all up. It was time for the "little Stalin horses" to get up and go chop wood. (3)

He scowled. He hated guards.

The irony made him laugh bitterly as he sat up. After tightening the rags around his legs, he managed to lift himself to his feet and slowly march outside the hut and into the freezing night air.

His muscles, what were left of them, ached and he felt as if he were walking through molasses.

The sound of another prisoner being beaten close by panicked him into at least acting more alert.

He was handed a large axe that he was barely able to lift. A guard blew a whistle and he trudged behind the rest of the prisoners out the front gate.

As his scantily-clad feet sunk into the deep, bitterly cold mud, his mind wandered far from his predicament. With a conscious effort he kept his mind there, ignoring the misery his body now found itself in. He almost smiled. For the moment, until he could imagine a better future, his memories were enough.

* * *

" _Where_ did you get _that_?!" Sergeant Andrew Carter demanded, looking wide-eyed at his friend, the English corporal, Newkirk.

Newkirk just grinned slyly and winked. "I filched it off that Kraut officer that came through 'ere today," he explained, eyeing the gold pocket watch that dangled from his hand. "Don't worry Andrew, I doubt 'e'll miss it. 'E probably couldn't even read the ruddy thing anyway."

"Boy, what a grouch he was, huh," Carter said, recalling the stern German General that had come to inspect Stalag 13. "So, what're you going to do with it?"

Newkirk shrugged and seated himself at the table in the middle of the room. "I don't know. Never know when a pocket watch will come in 'andy though." He reached and grabbed a deck of cards that were lying on the table and began shuffling them. "'Ow 'bout a game of poker then to chase the boredom away?"

"No way," Carter said, swatting the air. "Last time we played, you beat me outta ten dollars." A devious smile played on Carter's lips. "But I'll play gin with you if you want."

"Do you take me for a ruddy fool?! Every time I play that game against you, you some'ow manage to beat me before I get a chance to throw one card away- no matter 'ow 'ard I try to rig the deck!"

Carter laughed and jumped into his bunk, curling into his warm blankets. Newkirk scrunched his nose and turned to Sergeant Kinchloe, who was reading a book on his bunk. "'Ow 'bout you?" He was just met with a raised eyebrow. "Louis?" Corporal Lebeau just snorted and continued stirring a pot on the stove. Newkirk glanced towards the colonel's room but shook the thought immediately out of his head. The colonel was catching up on some much needed sleep.

Suddenly, the answer to his prayer arrived in the form of Sergeant Schultz, who chose that moment to enter the barracks. "Schultzie! What a pleasant surprise."

Schultz was momentarily taken aback by the enthusiastic greeting. "Pleasant? Surprise? I come here at this time every night."

"Well, tonight you're in luck. 'Ow 'bout joining me in a friendly game of poker."

Schultz snorted. "A friendly game of poker, with you? I may as well hand over my wallet now."

"You could do that too Schultzy, but that would take the fun out of it."

"Ha, jolly joker."

"I'm serious Schultz. If I don't play a game I might go 'round the bend. I'm bored out of me skull! I swear the worst ruddy thing about being a prisoner is the boredom."

" _You_ are bored?" Schultz repeated incredulously. Though he didn't admit it, he knew these men were no ordinary POWs. They had more adventures than he cared to remember. "I can't. It's against regulations!"

"Eh, regulations. Listen, I'll even spot you a fiver… I'll even play fair!"

Schultz was about to refuse when he saw the pleading look in the younger man's eye. Well, what was one game of poker? He might even win this time! Smiling, Schultz took a seat across from Newkirk. "Okay, one round and then it is lights out."

"That's the spirit Schultzy!" Newkirk grinned, rubbing his hands together before dealing out the deck. The other men in the room gathered around to watch. When both men took a look at their hands, Carter, who was sitting behind Schultz, nearly choked. Schultz grinned and held his fingers up to his lips. Newkirk just raised an eyebrow. Maybe playing fair wasn't such a good idea after all.

"You can't go now!" Newkirk hollered. He couldn't believe this! Their one hand of poker had quickly evolved into several and Schultz had won nearly every one. It wasn't supposed to work like that! All right, that was it. From now on, he was going to play dirty. No more of this honesty rubbish. "You took every cent I 'ave!"

"You can always _make_ more," Schultz said lightly, a small smile on his face.

Newkirk cocked an eyebrow. "What's that Schultzy?"

Schultz suddenly realized what he had said and shook his head fiercely. "I said nothing! I know nothing! I see nothing!" Of course, that was a lie- he had seen and heard much. The point was, he didn't _want_ to know about the prisoners' extra activities. He looked the other way so when asked, he could claim ignorance and by doing so, perhaps he could get through this war unnoticed and in one piece. Yes, wouldn't the Gestapo like to know everything he did.

"It's not so much the money I mind, but you took me watch too!"

For the first time, Schultz seemed to notice the watch and peered at it intently. "Where did you get this?!"

"Me granddaddy sent it to me Schultzy." Schultz didn't believe him and the look on his face said so. "Do you _really_ want to know where I got it from?" Newkirk pushed.

"Nein! I don't want to know anything!" Schultz replied. He looked at the watch and contemplated giving it back. No doubt the English corporal had used illegitimate means for obtaining it. But then again, it was an attractive timepiece. And he did have a son turning 16 soon- too old for the toys he had always given him. A watch would be appropriate for that age.

"Come on Schultz."

"Nein. It is past lights out. Do you want me to get in trouble? The Kommandant could send me to the Russian Front if he saw me here!"

"Not ready for a winter vacation Schultz?" Kinch asked from behind him.

"I hear the skiing there is great," Carter chimed in.

"What, are you nuts or something!" Schultz pushed away from the table and got to his feet, tucking his winnings into his pockets. "Where's my rifle?"

"Right here Schultz," Lebeau said, handing the guard his rifle. Schultz took it absently and hung it over his shoulder. It bothered him that the little French man always seemed to be the one to take it.

"All right, into bed all of you," Schultz ordered, shooing Lebeau towards his bunk. He flipped up Carter's blanket, which was hanging over the side of his bed, so it covered the young sergeant. When Newkirk had jumped up to the top bunk, Schultz turned and switched out the light before creeping out of the barracks. Stretching and letting out a big yawn, Schultz began his rounds.

"Raus, raus! Roll call!" Schultz's big voice boomed inside the barracks, rousing men from their sleep. Groans and protests filled the air, but slowly, the Allied prisoners slid out of their beds and trudged out the door. Schultz counted them as they passed by. Hogan, as always, was the last to leave.

"Beautiful morning Schultz," the American commented as he stepped outside and took his place into the line.

"Ja, nice and warm," Schultz agreed as he marched to the front and began counting.

"Schultz why do you always count us twice?" Hogan asked. "Isn't it enough to count us as we walk out?"

"I need to make sure none of you have run away since then."

Hogan's eyes grew big. "You don't trust us?" he asked, sounding hurt. Schultz just snorted and continued counting the men.

"Repooooooooort!" Klink shouted as he marched down from his office and towards the men assembled outside.

Schultz turned smartly and saluted. "Herr Kommandant, I'm pleased to announce that all the prisoners are present and accounted for."

"Very good. Diii-"

Klink was cut short when a staff car suddenly tore into the compound and came to an abrupt stop in front of Klink's office. Schultz looked at the car and then to Hogan, silently asking for an explanation. But the American colonel was just as perplexed as his captors. Klink wasted no time in making a bee-line for the car. When the driver got out and opened the door, Klink made a hasty salute and started stuttering.

"General Schmidt, what are _you_ doing here again?" Klink asked, his knees quaking as the general stepped out.

"My watch Klink!"

Klink just blinked in confusion. "Your watch sir?"

"Yes, my watch! It was stolen while I was here."

"Sir, I assure you that none of my men could've-"

"Obviously Klink! I want you to search the prisoners! Tear this camp apart until it is found!" The general screamed, his face turning redder by the second.

"Of course! Right away sir! You can depend on me sir!"

"KLINK!"

"Yes sir!" Klink snapped a salute and practically ran towards Schultz, followed slowly by the general. "Schultz! Search the prisoners, search the barracks! Find the general's watch!"

"Of course Herr Kommandant!" Schultz replied with a salute. He turned to the prisoners and began patting them down. He saw Hogan shoot Newkirk a annoyed look. Newkirk just shrugged sheepishly but suddenly paled and nodded towards Schultz. Hogan raised an eyebrow and looked at Schultz, who looked back, feeling confused. Then it hit him. _He_ had the general's watch. It was the watch he had won off Newkirk the night before.

Schultz dropped his hands and started to search himself.

"Schultz! What are you doing!" Klink demanded.

Schultz turned and tried to explain, but no words could form. He just ended up stuttering nonsense. The general noticed and marched up to him. "What is it Sergeant?! What is wr-" He stopped mid-sentence. His eyes narrowed and the red returned to his tight face. "My watch!" he shouted, pulling at the chain that was strung from Schultz's pocket to his button hole. The watch jumped out of Schultz's breast pocket and swung at the end of the chain. "What are you doing with my watch!"

Schultz just continued to blabber. A second later, his saviour stepped in.

"He confiscated it from one of my men sir," Hogan explained. "We had no idea it was yours sir. I assure you that the man responsible will by punished."

Schultz shot Hogan a grateful look. The American colonel was his best friend- he always bailed him out of danger. Schultz sometimes wondered why Hogan took such great pains to save him for himself. He liked to think that Hogan was doing it just for him, but more probably, it the colonel had more selfish reasons for doing it.

The general was not at all soothed. "Yes, I assure you he will." He turned to Klink but kept an eye on Schultz. "Kommandant Klink, this man had my watch and made no attempt to return it to me."

"But, but I didn't kn-" Schultz began but quickly shut his mouth when he received a death glare from the general.

"I want him relieved of duty here and headed for the Russian Front on the very first train leaving Hammelburg."

"Now wait a minute, I protest-" Hogan began.

"Hogan, Schultz is one of _my_ men. You are in no position to protest his transfer," Klink interrupted.

The general gave Hogan a curious glance. "And why do you protest? You are a prisoner."

"Schultz is the toughest guard here. Without him, my men might get out of line and try something stupid- like an escape. But they'll forget that the Iron Colonel is still here and they might get hurt. We need Schultz here!" Hogan earnest plea didn't do much to sway the general's opinion. In fact, the general almost laughed.

"This man is the toughest guard?!" the general laughed, looking Schultz up and down. "Klink, if this is your toughest guard, then I think some personnel changes need to be made. When I get back to Berlin, I will request that General Burkhalter send you an entirely new set."

Hogan and his men exchanged panicked looks. But they were nowhere near the panicked and horrified looks that played across Schultz's face and mind. He looked at Hogan, his eyes pleading for the colonel to save him. Hogan shook himself and then nodded, a determined look in his eye.

"You're making a mistake general," Hogan warned in a low voice that, if Hogan were not a helpless prisoner of war, would make most men pause and rethink their idea. The general simply waved him off.

"Do not worry Colonel Hogan. There are plenty of vicious, tough guards that can watch over you and keep your men safe. Come Sergeant Schultz, we will see about getting you to a colder climate."

* * *

One more swing.

One more chop of the axe.

Whatever hair-brained scheme Colonel Hogan had come up with hadn't worked, Schultz thought sadly as he smacked the head of the axe into the small trunk.

He was sure he made a go of it though.

How were the boys doing now that he was gone? Would they laugh that he was now a POW himself? No, probably not. True, they had been enemies, but in their own way, they had all been friends too. They had all tried to make the best of their situation, whether as captives or captors, and had tried to help each other through it. Schultz had tried to ease the daily grind of being a POW for them- not that they really needed his help to find something to do. And they had kept him out of trouble- for the most part anyway.

CRACK

Schultz hadn't been paying attention and nearly went down with the tree. He saved himself and sighed in relief. That was the last of it.

He joined the group of prisoners that were slowly hacking up the long stalk into smaller chunks of fire wood. Other groggy men came and carried the hunks to a cart, where weary men- little Stalin horses as they Russians called them- waited to drag it away.

Finally, their work finished, the prisoners made their way back to their camp. Schultz let the axe trail behind him and repeated the mantra that kept him going.

One more day.

Just one more day.

Suddenly, his feet came out from under him as he stepped on a bald patch of ice. Schultz tried to stop himself, but couldn't and smacked into the hard ground.

Get up, get up, get up, his brain yelled.

But he was tired. His muscles protested when he tried to lift himself up. Defeated, Schultz collapsed and lay on the ice. Men passed him, not wanting to expend precious energy to help him.

Get up, his brain pleaded, but with less force this time. You have to go home. Berta needs to find out what happens to Repunzel. Werner still wants that model train and you still haven't given Hans a present for his birthday. Get up!

Just one more day, you can make it! Please?!

Schultz gave it one last try but couldn't seem to move. His muscles were nothing but jelly. Letting out a small sigh, Schultz resigned himself to the cold ground.

One more day was one day too many.

The End

* * *

An estimated 3.5 million Germans were taken captive by the Russians during four years of the war. 1.5 million did not survive. Some were kept prisoners for almost ten years after the war ended.

(1), (2) Enemy at the Gates by William Craig

(3) Prisoners of War, Time Life Books


	4. The Duel

Kommandant Wilhelm Klink stood in front of his mirror, absently humming a tuneless melody. The amount of time he had spent primping would've put a teenage girl to shame. But that thought hadn't crossed his mind. All he cared about was looking perfect- perfect and desirable. Yes, desirable. The thought almost made him giggle, but he had enough dignity to curb the impulse. He wasn't a giddy school boy after all. He was a colonel for the great German Luftwaffe! Still, he was filled with a certain sense of excitement as he pondered what the night had in store for him.

The excitement quickly faded however, when he heard the door to his office open without so much as a knock beforehand. That could only mean the arrival of one person. Klink rolled his eyes and firmly decided to ignore his unwelcome guest.

"Howdy Kommandant!" came Colonel Robert Hogan's cheerful greeting.

Klink raised an eyebrow but did not move, but instead continued to primp, making sure every hair was in place. "Howdy?" he repeated. "What are you now Colonel Hogan? A cowboy from the wild west?"

"Well, no. But I've always been a big fan of John Wayne."

"How very nice for you," Klink said flatly, hoping to discourage any further conversation.

The sound of Hogan sniffing the air grated on his nerves. "Say, what's that smell? Break a kerosene lamp?"

Klink felt his face grow hot. "As a matter of fact, that's my aftershave!"

He caught Hogan's face in his mirror and scowled. "Aftershave huh? That's nice, but you don't have to get gussied up for little old me." He watched Hogan sneak over to his desk and open his cigar box.

"Drop that!" Klink ordered, whirling around. But by the time he had, Hogan's hands were behind his back and he was whistling innocently. "I saw you in the mirror. Don't play innocent with me!" He tried to make it sound like a warning, but much to his dismay, he just sounded like a frustrated school teacher with no real authority.

"Kommandant," Hogan started, blinking large, guiltless eyes, "whatever do you mean?!"

"Humph," was Klink's reply as he seated himself behind his desk. "What can I do for you now Colonel Hogan?"

"Well, I came over to make some complaints, but while I'm here, why not letting me borrow some of that aftershave?! Be real handy for knocking the dogs out before we try our escape."

For once, Klink could tell the cheeky American was joking. "Get your own kerosene," Klink muttered. Hogan raised an eyebrow in amusement, not having entirely expected that reply.

Hogan sat down and propped his feet up on Klink's desk. "Come on Kommandant, man to man, colonel to colonel, what's the big occasion?"

Klink jumped up and pulled at his collar, unable to resist the temptation to rub something in the American's face. "As a matter of fact, I have a date tonight in town."

Hogan looked mildly surprised. "A date? You mean with a girl?"

"Of course with a girl!" Klink snapped.

Hogan held his hands up in mock surrender. Klink could see the wheels turning in his head and wondered what the American was thinking. "This girl, it uh, pretty serious?" Hogan asked with a grin and a wink.

Klink held his head a little higher and smirked. "Oh I think so."

Hogan got up and slid behind Klink, a cheeky grin on his face. "Come on Kommandant, you can tell me. Where'd you meet here. What's she like? And don't leave out any details." To emphasize what he meant, Hogan outlined a woman's figure in the air.

"Why do you want to know?" Klink asked, feeling like a cat playing with a mouse. Hogan sounded truly interested and it was nice to be able to keep some information from him for once.

"I've been a prisoner for two years Kommandant! Even _your_ love life could seem interesting." Klink scowled. "Ah come on Colonel, have a heart!"

"Very well," Klink said, regaining his smirk. "Her name is Marlene Gütsberg. I met here at a hofbrau in town a few weeks ago. She is smitten, _smitten_ with me."

"Yeah, yeah… And how about-" Hogan again outlined a figure. Klink didn't say anything, but only repeated Hogan's gesture with an uncharacteristic wink. Hogan let out a whistle. "Well, my congratulations Kommandant. Uh, you seeing her again tonight you said?"

"That's right," Klink answered pompously.

Hogan suddenly headed for the door, seemingly losing all interest. "Well, best of luck to you Kommandant." He opened the door and was about to step out when he turned slightly. "Where'd you say you were meeting her again?"

"The Von Schlickter Hofbrau in town." He paused. "Why?"

"Oh, just curious," Hogan said in his usually flippant way before he headed out.

Klink just shook his head after the strange American and turned back to his mirror.

* * *

Hogan rushed into his barracks and snapped for Kinch to follow him. Kinch exchanged a look with the rest of the men, who watched the colonel curiously. As one, they all got up and followed him into the tunnel.

"What's up Colonel?" Kinch asked as he jumped off the ladder and landed on the hard dirt floor.

"Klink, that's what."

"What about him?" Lebeau asked.

"Ol' Blood and Guts has a date tonight."

"You must be joking," Newkirk said with an odd mix of intrigue, disgust and horror. "Klink?"

"Yup."

"Hey, why not!" Carter chimed in cheerfully. "I mean, shucks, my old grade school principal was the meanest old man to ever-"

"Save it Carter," Hogan said, cutting the young sergeant off. Carter fell silent and grinned sheepishly.

"So Klink's got a girl, nothing terrible about that," Kinch said, trying to understand Hogan's concern. "Miracles can still happen."

"Not miracles this big," Hogan corrected.

"So what's this got to do with us guv'nor?"

"I'm not sure yet. Kinch, get in touch with the Hammelburg underground."

"What are you thinking Colonel?" Lebeau asked as Kinch fiddled with his radio.

"I'm thinking that no woman in her right mind would go after Klink unless they wanted information. That points to the underground or the Gestapo."

"That Gestapo doesn't have to us fancy tricks like that," Newkirk chuckled. "All they have to do is send Hochstetter into his office and he'll sing like a pigeon."

"Maybe. But then that leaves the underground. And if they are trying something, why wouldn't they have told us?" His men just shrugged.

"Papa Bear to Cinderella. Come in Cinderella."

"Cinderella here Papa Bear," a deep voice crackled over the radio. "What's going on?"

"I need a little information Cinderella," Hogan said as he grabbed the equipment from Kinch. "Do you have any agents that have engaged Chicken Little?"

"Chicken Little?" Cinderella repeated, mulling the name over. "No, I don't think so. Why?"

"All right, do you know any Gestapo agents that might be after him?"

"Gestapo activity has been pretty quiet in the last few weeks. Maybe if you were more specific Papa Bear."

"Brace yourself Cinderella. It seems Chicken Little has a date tonight."

Cinderella choked. "Nein, nein. Impossible." Cinderella paused as if digesting the information. "We've heard nothing about the Gestapo tagging him. And we would've informed you if we were. So…"

"So, the sky is definitely falling. Thanks Cinderella. Papa Bear over and out." Hogan put down the equipment and scratched his head. "How about that."

"You mean… this is all on the level?" Newkirk asked, as if he needed proof.

"Looks that way," Hogan replied, absolutely stunned.

"Klink? Klink has a girlfriend?!" Carter practically shouted.

"I guess so. Heh… I guess miracles do happen after all."

* * *

Klink checked himself over one last time before he entered the hofbrau. He stood casually at the door as he scanned the room for a certain brunette. A smile crossed his lips as he spotted the object of his affection and he purposefully sashayed up to her. Her face lit up when he approached.

"Marlene! My darling!" He said as elegantly as he could as he grabbed her hand and planted a kiss on it.

Marlene beamed. "Willy! I was so worried you would not come tonight."

"Of course I came. I could not bear another second without seeing your radiant smile." Marlene melted at the compliment. Klink smirked to himself. If only Hogan could see him now. The American took great delight in making fun of Klink and his romantic endeavours. But there was no denying the admiration that shone in this beautiful woman's eyes. Admiration that was directed at him and him alone- Colonel Wilhelm Klink.

Klink seated himself across from Marlene and took a few minutes to just watch her. After a moment, Marlene blushed and Klink smiled- this was the way it should always be when a handsome man such as himself met a beautiful woman.

"And now my dear, how about a little refreshment? Schnapps? Wine?"

"Oh, whatever you prefer Willy." Klink smiled and snapped his fingers, summoning a waiter. A few moments later, he returned with two glasses.

"To your lovely eyes my dear," Klink said raising his glass. Marlene returned the gesture with a blush and both took a small sip before delving into conversation.

The evening was passing pleasantly. Of course, how could it not with such company. Suddenly, Marlene frowned and tensed. "What is it liebling?"

"Oh no," Marlene muttered, trying to shield her face with her hand. But it was too late and she knew it. Klink watched his curiously but stiffened when he felt a heavy hand come crashing down on his shoulder.

"Marlene!" an angry voice shouted. Marlene just looked up sheepishly and nodded. "Ah, so! _This_ is where you've been running off to! And who is this with you, hmm?! Stand up you!"

Klink paled and waited for Marlene to stand until he realized the order had been directed at him. Gulping, the Colonel stood and turned to face his opponent. The color further drained from his face and he began to shake. "G-G-General," he managed to whimper.

"General von Stauffenberg!" the man, who was at least 50 lbs heavier and a head taller than Klink barked. Klink began to shake.

"General von Stauffenberg," Klink squeaked, "what a pleasant surprise. What brings _you_ here?"

"I followed her here!" he explained pointing to Marlene. "I am very fond of her. Very."

"Oh… I see."

"And I come in here and see she has traded me for a lowly colonel."

"I assure you General, I did not know," Klink stammered.

"Enough!" von Stauffenberg shouted. He tore off a glove and slammed it onto the table. "Colonel, Colonel…"

"Klink sir," the frightened Kommandant supplied helpfully.

"Yes, Colonel Klink, I challenge you to a duel!"

"A… A duel?" Klink repeated. "Surely you must be joking." He regretted the words the moment they flew out of his mouth. "But, but we have no swords," he quickly added.

Von Stauffenberg seemed thoughtful for a moment. "You are right Klink. And using anything other than swords isn't nearly as honourable." Klink sighed with relief and felt his body sag. "But then again, the dishonour you have done me is far greater. You have a pistol, I have a pistol. We shall use those."

"But, but…"

Von Stuaffenberg didn't want to hear any excuses. Grabbing Klink's side arm, he thrust it into the Colonel's unwilling hand and then grabbed his own. "Turn around!" he barked. Klink did and von Stauffenberg did the same, pressing his back against Klink's. "Ten paces, then we turn and fire."

This was ludicrous! Absolutely insane! Surely the general knew this! "One!" von Stauffenberg shouted and took a step. Klink could see every clear away and he felt himself automatically taking a step. What was he doing?!

"Two!"

He felt like he was trapped in one of Hogan's John Wayne movies.

"Three!"

Utterly insane. What was he doing?! When was the last time he had actually fired a pistol? When was the last time he had actually hit something when he had?!

"Four!"

Panic rose up in Klink's stomach. There was no way he was going through with this. Not for some girl!

"Five!"

Klink didn't wait for another beat. Without another thought he bolted towards the door. The sound of a gunshot filled the room and Klink stopped dead in his tracks, right in front of the door. A bullet hole smouldered in the woodwork, mere inches away from his face. "Get back here you coward."

Klink debated throwing the door open and escaping, but fought the urge. He really didn't want to be shot in the back. If he did have to die, he didn't want it to be as a coward. Being a live coward he could deal with.

Reluctantly, he turned and von Stauffenberg started the procedure again. "One."

Thoughts flooded Klink's mind. Maybe he would be lucky. Maybe his aim would be true.

"Two."

Who was he kidding. He couldn't hit the broad side of a barn as Hogan would say.

"Three."

And if he did? Then what? He'd be court-marshalled for shooting a superior officer. Then he'd end up in front of a firing squad and/or sent to the Russian Front.

"Four."

Oh how he wished Hogan would burst through that door and save him. That was an odd thought, Klink reflected. But then again, it was hard to deny the number of times Hogan had randomly showed up to save his skin.

"Five."

Yes, Hogan would save him. He had to! Time and time again Hogan had told Klink how important he was. How important his disciple and strict rules and punishments were for the welfare of the prisoners. Why, without him there, they might try to escape, they might get themselves hurt.

"Six."

Yes, Hogan needed him to maintain order and discipline and for that reason, Hogan would save him.

"Seven."

Hmm… Still no Hogan. All right, all right. So maybe he wasn't as tough as Hogan made him out to be. Maybe he wasn't strict and mean like Hogan said. Maybe Hogan said that just so he could get away with more. All right, all right, no maybes about it.

"Eight."

Well, if anything, Hogan should save him because they were friends.

"Nine."

No? All right, that was a little lame. Hogan would save him because without him, Stalag 13 would get a new Kommandant- a real Kommandant. A Kommandant who wouldn't put up with Hogan's shenanigans and would just a likely put Hogan in front of a firing squad of transfer him than look at him.

"Ten!"

Without thinking Klink whirled around and fired.

The crowd held their breath as a body hit the ground.

Klink blinked in surprise and then blinked again.

So… Hogan hadn't saved him.

Funny.

That surprised him more than the pain.


	5. The Trial of Major Hochstetter

The courtroom was hot- unbearably so. The air was thick and stuffy, made only worse by the amount of people crammed into the room. But no one dared open a window. The breeze from outside offered no relief. It was just as hot and, worse, it reeked with the smell of death- the smell of hundreds of bodies still trapped under the rubble of the bombed out German city.

The defendant scowled.

The evidence was irrefutable. He knew it. Of course, he didn't think he had done anything wrong- it was a war and he had just been following orders. But these judges, these _Americans_ , didn't seem to think that those qualified as solid excuses.

They would find him guilty of course. And then they would hang him, he was certain of that. No life imprisonment for him- _he_ would see to that.

Major Hochstetter searched the crowd from his seat at the side of the courtroom. His eyes fell upon the object of his hate. He noted that Colonel Robert Hogan, flanked by two of his men, was glaring back at him with such intensity that it almost made him squirm. But he didn't and instead channelled all of his hate into his own glare.

"Any further comments council?" he heard the judge ask his lawyer. Hochstetter scowled when he heard his lawyer answer in the negative. "Very well. Court is dismissed. We will have the verdict tomorrow, 0900." With the bang of a gavel, the judges stood and left the room.

Hochstetter, prompted by his escorts, also stood and was led out of the room. He kept his eyes on Hogan as long as he could. When he was forced to turn, he could still feel Hogan's white hot glare burning into his back.

Sergeant Kinchloe stood up and let out a heavy sigh. "One more day of this," he muttered.

"Oui, the last day is almost here," Louis Lebeau agreed, his voice flat. Lebeau glanced over at Hogan who still hadn't taken his eyes off the door Hochstetter had disappeared through. "They'll find him guilty."

"Course they will," Kinch agreed.

"Yeah, for what good it'll do," Hogan finally muttered as he stood up and straightened his uniform.

Kinch cleared his throat, not wanting to think of Hochstetter's crimes more than he had to. "Come on, we better head back. Tomorrow's going to be pretty rough."

"You guys go, I have something I need to do."

Lebeau and Kinch exchanged worried glances. "Leave it alone Colonel. Be happy that-"

Hogan turned a dangerous eye on the little Frenchman. "Happy?" he snorted bitterly. "Listen, don't worry. I'm just going to talk to him."

"What for Colonel?" Kinch pleaded in frustration. "Don't torture yourself. It won't-"

"Get back to HQ. I'll meet up with you guys later." There was no room for argument when the colonel spoke like that. Grudgingly, Kinch and Lebeau agreed. Shooting one last worried glance back at him, the two enlisted men marched out of the building.

Hogan sighed and sagged slightly. Did he really want to do this? Yes, yes he did. He wanted to and needed to. Determined, Hogan straightened up and marched through the courthouse and into the street outside. The wicked smells hit him like a train, but he ignored it.

"Colonel? Sir?" Hogan watched a young private march up to him, a questioning look on his face. "Sir, your men just drove off. But I can-"

"No thanks. I've got other business I need to attend to. I need you to drive me to the prison."

"Yes sir." He offered a salute and climbed into the closest jeep. Hogan did the same and a moment later, they were driving through the dilapidated city. Ten minutes and a few jeep-sized potholes later, they pulled up to a dreary looking building. A wave of emotion hit Hogan. He wasn't sure whether he wanted to be sick or amused. The building had once been Gestapo headquarters. He decided to push aside bad memories and be amused. How fitting that Hochstetter should be locked up here.

"Thank-you Private. Listen, you hang around. When I come out, I'll want to go back to HQ."

"Yes sir, I've got nowhere else to go." Hogan smiled and patted him on the shoulder before jumping out of the army-issue jeep. Marching up to the building, he stood motionless outside the door for a moment to collect himself before plunging in. He took a moment to soak in his surroundings before marching up to the desk.

"Sergeant?"

The rotund sergeant looked up from his paperwork and offered a salute, which Hogan returned. It was an odd experience. It had been three long years since he had been saluted with such regularity. At Stalag 13 he had been given all the respect he had deserved, and then some, but it wasn't shown in such hollow military ways. "What can I do for you Colonel?"

"I need to see one of your prisoners. Hochstetter."

The sergeant looked Hogan up and down and then turned to his paperwork. "Reason?"

Hogan arched an eyebrow. "Do I need one?"

"No, I suppose not… Let's see… Hochstetter, Hochstetter… right, he's in a holding cell downstairs." He snapped his finger and a corporal marched up. "Corporal, take the colonel to 13, huh."

"Sure. This way Colonel." Hogan thanked the sergeant and followed the bouncy corporal down a flight of stairs and through a narrow, dim hallway. Hogan shivered, feeling like he had been there before. The corporal handed Hogan off to a sentry and left. The sentry led him to the end of the hall.

"Hochstetter," the ornery sounding sergeant growled as he knocked on the steel door. "Got a visitor for you. Heaven only knows why." He snapped open a small window at the top of the door and motioned the colonel forward. Hogan scrunched his nose. He would've liked to go in, but the sergeant just shook his head, as if reading his thoughts.

"Who is it? Go away!" the German snapped.

"Hiya Major," Hogan greeted, disguising his malice with the warm cheekiness that Hochstetter hated so much.

Hochstetter, who was lying on an uncomfortable looking cot, glanced up at him and sneered. "Colonel Hogan. I should've known it was you. What are you doing here?"

That was a good question. What _was_ he doing here? Now that he was face to face with the man who'd made his last few month of captivity a nightmare, he had no idea what to say.

"Comfy?" Hogan managed, putting on a condescending smirk.

"Bah!" Hochstetter jumped up and started to pace slowly. "You like seeing me like this, don't you Hogan."

"You bet I do," Hogan spat. "How does it feel to be the one who's trapped?!"

"Temporary. They won't find me guilty tomorrow. I've done nothing wrong."

Hogan couldn't believe it. Was he serious?! "Nothing wrong?! Hochstetter, you've murdered dozens of people!"

"Bah!" Hochstetter waved it off. "Not murder. I interrogated, I questioned, I held prisoners of the Third Reich-"

"Hochstetter, when you torture someone to the point of death, that's murder." He felt his face turn red. He felt like going in there and throttling the smug little Gestapo man.

Hochstetter noticed Hogan's frustration and smirked. "You want to kill me, don't you Hogan."

"More than anything. But I had my chance. And if it hadn't been for Carter-" his heart tightened, but he managed to keep his voice steady. "If it hadn't been for Carter, you'd be with the devil right now. But he didn't want me to stoop to your level."

Hochstetter smirked. "You're a foolish man Hogan."

Hogan returned the smug look. "Oh, I think not. I think this is a much better punishment for you. I know what it's like to be a prisoner, remember." Hochstetter scowled at that which made Hogan smile. "Yeah, it's just tearing you up, isn't it? You hate being trapped." Hochstetter didn't answer, content to just glare at the American instead.

"Well, don't worry, it won't last too much longer. Tomorrow they'll sentence you." A dark smile crossed Hogan's face. "Yeah, I'm glad I didn't kill you. If I had, I wouldn't get to see you hang- and they are going to hang you, you know."

Hochstetter paled slightly. He knew it was true. He wished Hogan had shot him before. It was humiliating being Hogan's prisoner. And now they were going to hang him? Hochstetter shivered. "They won't hang me, I've done nothing-"

"They're gonna hang you! And I'm going to be there until your feet stop twitching!" The hatred that dripped from every word surprised even him.

Hochstetter watched the American try to get control over himself. A small smile played at his lips. Hogan always had a tight reign on his emotions, it was interesting to see him lose his grip. Hochstetter decided to give a little push, just to ruffle Hogan's feathers a little more. "All this over a few men-"

"My men!" Hogan snapped bitterly.

"Yes, your men. Then it must've been _your_ fault that they were captured." Something flashed past Hogan's eyes that told Hochstetter he had thought a lot about that. He smiled slightly. "In any case, they weren't much use. They were loyal to you until the end. Too bad you can't say the same." The hurt look on Hogan's faced soothed Hochstetter's soul. "Your sergeant, Carter knew you would come. Knew it. He never said anything like that of course, but I could tell he was just waiting for you to burst in and save him. And you did, I suppose… Too late to help him of course-"

"Shut up Hochstetter."

"Quite touching, your little good-bye scene you shared. What was it like to have one of your men die in your arms and know there was nothing you could do about it?"

"There was something I could do about it," Hogan said quietly.

Hochstetter looked at him curiously. "Whatever it was, it didn't-"

Hogan's eyes locked onto Hochstetter's stopping him dead. "I could make sure the man who killed him and Newkirk got what he deserved. And you're going to get just that!" Turning on his heel, Hogan started down the hall. "Have a good sleep Hochstetter."

Hochstetter watched him go and started to pace. Have a good sleep indeed. How could he, knowing what awaited him? Hogan was right, it was tearing him up being a prisoner. This was far, far worse than if Hogan had just killed him. Worst of all, Hogan knew it.

Hogan stepped out of the building and took a deep breath. Somehow, the stench outside was far more pleasant than the suffocating air inside the old Gestapo HQ.

He shook his head. Things had not gone as he'd planned, but it hadn't been a total waste. It was reassuring to see Hochstetter in his current position- a prisoner awaiting execution. It unnerved him to know that Hochstetter still felt no remorse, but maybe that would change when he faced the gallows. But, knowing Hochstetter, the smarmy little man would probably protest to the end.

"All done?" Hogan's driver asked as he bounded up.

Hogan let out a long sigh. "Yeah. Let's get out of here." He climbed into the jeep and sat back as his driver started it up and began driving through the city.

As they travelled, his mind wandered back to Newkirk and Carter. It had been his fault they'd been captured. Why hadn't he gone after them sooner?

The answer hid in the recesses of his memory. It didn't really matter. Whatever the reason, he hadn't made it in time. Surprisingly enough, Carter had held out longer than Newkirk. Neither of them had uttered a single word about the operation. He should've been proud of that, but he felt nothing but anger and guilt.

He kidded himself into thinking that he'd be able to put it to rest when Hochstetter's sentence was carried out. But he knew their memory would haunt him for a long time to come.

"Holy Mother!" Hogan's driver yelled, snapping him out of his dreary thoughts. The jeep's tires squealed and Hogan looked ahead to see what was wrong.

His brain didn't even have time to register before they drove straight through the wire.

* * *

Hans Scharff grinned and jumped out of his hiding place. His trap had barely been set up before that jeep had come around the corner. That was just as well- it kept it from being spotted by American foot patrols, which weren't affected by it.

Casting an uninterested glance towards the jeep and its beheaded occupants, Schraff quickly went to work taking the sharp wire down from its posts at the opposite sides of the road. He'd move it to another, oft used road and hopefully get a few more Allies before the day was out.


	6. When I'm Gone

BANG!

Private Kurt Muller practically jumped a mile into the air. Whirling around, he saw his friend and fellow private, Max Klaus, holding his rifle and pointing it into the woods. "Max! What was that for?"

"Sorry. I thought I saw something moving over there!"

"Thought? Well, was there?" Muller asked. Klaus hesitated. "Let's go see then. Where did you fire?" Klaus pointed up ahead a few meters. Gripping his rifle, Muller cautiously headed in that direction, scanning everything around him. Suddenly, he stopped in his tracks.

"Mein Gott."

* * *

Hogan looked like he'd aged a decade in the last few weeks. He sat hunched over his desk, pouring over the latest intelligence the underground had sent. His men loitered nearby, waiting for him to come up with an idea.

"Sir?"

"Quiet Carter," Hogan said tiredly as he rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Just… just let me think."

"Right Colonel," Carter said meekly, shrinking back into the woodwork. Hogan looked as if he wanted to apologize but shook his head instead and continued to pour over the message.

"A munitions train'll be going by here, heading for France," he finally said. "We've got to blow it up, tonight. But there's going to be a lot of open ground to cross. Anyone want to volunteer to go out?" He couldn't order them to go- not after what had happened. He wanted to go himself, but couldn't. General Burkhalter was in camp and if Hogan didn't show up to do his usual snooping and pestering, the Krauts might become suspicious. He was really the only prisoner the Germans would miss.

Kinch was about to speak up but Carter beat him to it. "I'll go Colonel. You know I can never turn down a good explosion."

Hogan almost smiled, but then a dark shadow crossed his features. He hesitated, but then finally nodded. "Okay Carter, you can go. But be careful! Security's been tightened for Burkhalter."

"Sure thing Colonel. I'll be extra careful. I'll make sure to stay far away from any patrols and…" Carter's voice trailed off when he saw the colonel and the others tense. "I'll be careful," he repeated quietly.

"Please," Hogan said softly. "I can't afford anymore grey hair. Girls will start to think I'm too old for them." The men quietly laughed and he replied with a tired smile. "All right, dismissed. Carter, you have an hour to get some dynamite ready. Newkirk, fix him up with a uniform."

"Right Colonel. Come on Andrew, let's get you dressed for the ball." The men marched out, but Kinch stayed behind. The colonel didn't seem to notice so Kinch took the opportunity to study him.

He looked tired and depressed. Of course, Kinch couldn't blame him. It had been so unexpected. In one lousy night, for one lousy mission, Hogan had lost one of his men. And it had hit him hard.

Of course, it had been hard for everyone. It was a small camp and everyone was so close to one another. But Hogan blamed himself for what happened. Kinch could see him going over it in his head. He could practically hear the colonel's thoughts- I should've went. I should've gone with him. Why did I send him? It's all my fault.

Kinch shook his head. It wasn't his fault. As brilliant as Hogan was, he couldn't foresee everything. Sometimes bad things just happened and there was nothing anyone, not even Hogan, could do about it.

"Sir, if you want to talk," Kinch offered, though he knew the gesture was in vain.

"I'm getting too old for this," Hogan mumbled as he rubbed his eyes. Kinch wondered how long it'd been since the colonel had gotten a good night's sleep. Probably not since before he'd taken command of Stalag 13. Losing one of his men had just made it worse.

"Get some sleep Colonel," Kinch suggested quietly. Hogan just shook his head and went back to looking at the information the underground had given him. Kinch knew it was useless to try to get him to listen. Sighing, he shook his head and quietly left the office.

The attitude in the common room was not much better. The men lay quietly in the bunks, lacking their usual cheer. A few glanced at the empty bunk in the room which only added to the melancholy mood that hovered in the air.

As he flopped into his own bunk, Kinch wondered how long the men would stay in this depressed rut. It amazed him how the death of one man could affect an entire camp. Pausing to think, it suddenly dawned on him that for the death of a man to have such an impact, his life must have been equally important. It was a new thought, one that Kinch had never considered before. It made him think how important his work was to the men and operation at Stalag 13.

He wasn't going to fool himself. He wasn't as important as Hogan. Without Hogan, the whole opera fell apart.

Hogan was the genius behind the operation, no doubt. His crazy scheme always managed to work out, sometimes just by sheer luck. Hogan could manipulate anyone into anything with his quick thinking and even quicker tongue. He took risks that Kinch wouldn't dare make and did so with such confidence that, for the most part, his men went along willingly, no matter how crazy the scheme seemed. He was brilliant with just a touch of insanity. Kinch couldn't help but admire the man.

Then, of course, there was Newkirk. Surely Kinch couldn't consider himself as important as he was. Newkirk's talents were indefensible. His sticky fingers could get a hold of anything without anyone being the wiser. He could steal Hitler's moustache if he wanted. And as far as safe-cracking went, well, anyone better than Newkirk had to be flown in from London.

Newkirk was a cynic with a heart of gold, though he would vehemently deny the latter. But he wasn't fooling anyone. Kinch knew that Newkirk would do anything for one of the other men- especially Carter.

Kinch chuckled quietly to himself. Carter and Newkirk, what a team. No two people could be completely opposite. Newkirk, a shady character from the hard streets of London, and Carter, a naïve farm boy from the backwaters of North Dakota, had somehow managed to form a friendship.

Carter was important too. Kinch shuddered to think what would happen to the camp if anything ever happened to the young sergeant from Bullfrog. He was like everyone's kid brother. He was dopey and annoying and the butt of everyone's jokes. But if he was ever in trouble, Kinch was sure that in an instant, there'd be twenty guys willing to go help him.

Not only was Carter important to morale, but he was also the best and certainly the most enthusiastic demolitions man they could hope for. And though he would never admit it out loud, Kinch found Carter's German characters ridiculously funny.

Then there was Lebeau. Lebeau, the fiercely loyal Frenchman. Some might think that cooking wasn't important to an operation like this. Kinch knew better. It was Lebeau and his cooking that had been responsible for the success of many missions. Cooking for the German brass, something Kinch was sure gnawed at Lebeau's soul, gave Hogan opportunities to get secrets and meet contacts and defectors. Lebeau's famous apple strudel had distracted Schultz on many occasions. If nothing else, Lebeau's cooking made life in a prison camp just a little more bearable. What would they do without Lebeau?

So, where did he fit into all this?

Kinch had always considered himself somewhat expendable- easily replaced. After all, it didn't take a genius to operate a radio. Given time anyone could master the system he'd set up. And it wasn't as if he went out on missions very often. He couldn't. Oh sure, he could speak German backwards and forwards, a lot of men here could. And he did a fairly convincing impersonation of Hitler- over the phone. But in person he couldn't pass himself off as a typical German. So he was usually stuck holding down the fort, waiting. A hard job to be sure, but definitely not dangerous or as appreciated.

Kinch got up and took a few steps forward. He turned and looked at his empty bunk and then at the depressed faces around the room.

So, if he was so expendable, why was everyone so miserable?

What Kinch hadn't considered, until this moment, was the quiet strength he lent to the men. He certainly did a lot to maintain the sanity of the camp. His was the voice of reasons amidst the often rambunctious and down-right insane thinking of the other men. It was his quiet strength and support that bolstered the men's faith in Hogan and Hogan's faith in himself.

Kinch grimaced. Was that it? He felt somehow cheated. He was smart and capable and yet he was stuck simply being a support to the others- helping to ease their frustrations and burdens when he had his own. Anger bubbled up inside him. But another look around the room calmed him a little. Maybe his role in the group was a little more passive than he would've liked. But there was no denying the impact he had on the men and how important his presence was. Besides, the last mission he got to go on hadn't ended so well anyway.

Suddenly, Lebeau, who had been keeping watch at the door, announced a guard was coming. Hogan poked his head out of his office. "It's Schultz and he's bringing someone with him," Lebeau announced.

"All right, get Carter and Newkirk up here," Hogan ordered. He wasn't going to take any chances, not even with Schultz. Lebeau nodded and scrambled over to Kinch's bunk and opened the entrance to the tunnel.

"Carter, Newkirk, get up here, vite, vite!" As soon Carter and Newkirk came top-side the entrance was closed, Schultz burst in.

"Hi Schultz," Hogan greeted flatly. "What's new?"

Schultz seemed hesitant as he motioned his companion inside. "I ah, brought a new prisoner Colonel Hogan. This is Sergeant Baker." He gestured to the new man. Kinch sized him up as he knew Hogan was. The tall, young African-American sergeant shrank slightly under the Colonel's thoughtful gaze.

"Fine," Hogan said dully as he poured himself a cup of coffee.

Schultz waited for Hogan to greet the new arrival and when he didn't, Schultz nervously cleared his throat. "Well, Sergeant Baker, that's Colonel Hogan, the senior prisoner of war. This is your barracks, barracks three. And that-" he looked around and pointed to Kinch's bunk- "that's your new bed."

"No," Hogan said harshly. He looked around and pointed to an empty bunk on the other side. "You can sleep there."

Baker looked from Schultz to Hogan and finally made his way to the other bunk. Schultz cleared his throat again. "Well, goodnight Colonel Hogan."

"Was this Klink's idea?" Hogan asked quietly. "Does he think Kinch can be replaced so easily?" He shook his head and snorted. "No wonder Klink's such a bad officer." And with that, Hogan turned on his heel and marched back into his office.

Kinch followed him. Hogan, of course, didn't notice him and sat down at his desk. He pulled out some paper and a pen and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "I've been putting this off for too long, but how do you write a letter like this?" he asked himself. Kinch moved behind him and peered over his shoulder. "Hell, I don't even know who to write it to!" Hogan let out a frustrated sigh. Grabbing his pen, he scribbled 'Dear Mrs. Kinchloe' at the top of the paper. 'I regret to inform you that your son-' Hogan crumpled the paper and threw it away.

"Way to go Rob," Hogan berated himself. "The guy was practically your best friend in this whole stupid camp and that's the best you can come up with?!"

Kinch was taken aback. He'd never really considered himself Hogan's friend. A confidant, an advisor, but not a friend. It was funny how you only really found out how people felt about you after you were dead.

"Listen Colonel, why don't you hit the sack?" Kinch said, though he knew Hogan couldn't hear him. "Things'll look better in the morning. It's not that big a deal. Being dead is not so bad."

"Ah Kinch," Hogan said, throwing down his pen. "You weren't even supposed to be here in the first place… but I'm glad you were." Letting out a sigh, Hogan retrieved his pen and started writing again. Kinch peered over and smiled. Perhaps not the most elegant letter ever, but it didn't have to be. It was enough to console his family and enough to let Kinch know how important he'd been. He'd never been one to show much emotion, but Kinch felt a few tears prick the corners of his eyes.

Smiling sadly, Kinch clapped the Colonel on the shoulder. "Thanks." Hogan shivered and pulled his jacket closer. "When you're done that and when Carter comes back, get some sleep Colonel," he said before leaving the office.

"Well Lebeau," he said as he came up to the little Frenchman, "it's been a lot of fun. Stay out of trouble." Lebeau just continued stirring the pot on the stove. Kinch shook his head and made his way down to the tunnels.

"Now keep your head down and stay out of trouble Andrew!" Newkirk ordered.

"Yes mother," Carter replied with a lopsided grin. He straightened his uniform and grabbed his explosives. "I'll be back in a couple of hours."

"All right, good luck mate." Carter grinned and started down the tunnel. "And be careful!" Newkirk called after him. "Remember what the colonel said!"

"Don't worry about him," Kinch said, coming up behind Newkirk. "He'll be all right." Newkirk sighed and sat down at Kinch's radio, lighting himself a cigarette.

"Well Kinch old friend," Newkirk said to the radio, "I guess it's my turn to wait. Wasn't a job I really envied you."

"Waiting's the worst part." He gave a half-smile. "Hold down the fort while I'm gone. I guess you're second in command now. Make sure the colonel gets some sleep huh."

Leaving Newkirk behind, Kinch followed Carter down the tunnel and up to the ground outside camp. "Be careful Carter," Kinch whispered, though he didn't know why. It was not as if the guards, or even Carter for that matter, could hear him. But something kept him from speaking up, just in case. He didn't want to bring any attention to Carter.

He waited until Carter was out of sight before standing up. The camp's searchlight passed over him and he instinctively shied away. "Well James, you've always wanted a chance to get out of camp and do whatever you want. I guess now's your chance."

Kinch turned and took one last look at the camp before slowly disappearing into the night.

The End


	7. The Last Time I Saw Paris

The city streets were alive with people, cars, and music. Everyone seemed to be doing something, going somewhere, but no one was rushed. And despite its current occupation, the city was bright and cheerful. Paris would always be Paris and no German could change that, no matter how hard he tried.

LeBeau took a moment to pause on the sidewalk beside a little café and take a long, deep breath, savouring the smells and sounds that surrounded him. It was good to be home again. Even if it was only for a short time, he was going to enjoy every moment.

"Why're you stopping LeBeau?" Sergeant Carter asked as he stopped beside his friend and looked around. "You see our contact?"

LeBeau shook himself out of his thoughts and glanced at the American. "Oh, sorry. I am just enjoying being home, that is all." Oh, how he missed it. There had been many times he'd been tempted to escape from Stalag 13 and never come back. But he knew he did more good for the war effort as a POW and a saboteur. So he stayed in that wretched camp in Germany, though the means were at his disposal to leave. Sometimes it just killed him.

"Let's go, or else we will be late," LeBeau finally sighed as he continued walking. Cater nodded and followed, trying to look as natural as he could in such an unnatural environment.

LeBeau paid little attention to his companion as they made their way along the city streets. Instead, his eyes hungrily ate up the familiar signs and shops that he loved so much. He suddenly stopped again, but this time not with sweet remembrance, but unabashed anger and hatred. There, just ahead of him, a Nazi flag was draped over the railings of a bookshop. A swastika over a bookshop, now there was a contradiction; Nazis burned books, they didn't read them.

Growling to himself and clenching his fist, he quickly walked past the offending flag before Carter could ask him what was wrong.

He hated to see his beautiful hometown defiled by such things. Flags, German soldiers and Gestapo men roaming the streets- he hated them. He hated the Germans for taking over this place, for trying to make it cold and efficient. It was part of the reason he stayed at Stalag 13. Everything they did there helped to bring a quicker end to the war, helped to free his beloved France from the clutches of evil. And until that day came, he could content himself with the little things: saving precious paintings, freeing beautiful underground agents, or simply gathering intelligence, as he was doing now.

Colonel Hogan had received word that the Germans were building a rocket factory outside of Paris. The underground has obtained it's location and plans for a new type of rocket that was being assembled there. It was far too dangerous for the underground to relay it over the radio or send someone to deliver it, so Hogan had decided to pick it up instead. Of course, LeBeau had volunteered to go, more for a taste of home than any desire to risk life and limb for the information. There had been too many things going on at the camp for Hogan to go and so after a quick draw of the straws, Carter, for better or worse, had won the coveted job of his travelling companion. LeBeau didn't mind so much. Hogan didn't allow for much pleasure on trips like this. While LeBeau would put the mission first he could now afford to take the time to do some things he wanted to do. And besides, Carter had never seen the Eiffel Tower up close.

"Hey, LeBeau, isn't that the café up there?" Carter asked, pointing down the street. LeBeau followed his finger and nodded.

"Oui, that is it." He casually checked his watch. "We have about ten minutes before our contact shows up."

"That mean we got enough time to eat something? I'm starved."

LeBeau grinned. "Oui. I will buy you the most delicious pastries you have ever tasted! If you think my cooking is good, wait until you try something made in a real kitchen."

Carter clapped his hands together and rubbed his growling tummy. "Oh boy."

"Oh boy is right," LeBeau grinned, feeling excited himself. Real food. While he was an excellent cook, he often lacked the right ingredients and the proper equipment for making true culinary masterpieces. And while this was only a street café, it offered a glimpse into what he was missing. Of course, there was a food shortage, so perhaps these kitchens also lacked important ingredients. So perhaps it was no better here than at camp.

Sighing at the suddenly depressing thought, LeBeau led Carter to the café and took a seat at a small table. Carter glanced at the menu, his face contorting with confusion. "I don't get any of this," he mumbled. He suddenly shivered. "Boy, I hope you don't run off like Newkirk said you would. I'd be stuck."

LeBeau wasn't sure whether he should be insulted or amused. "I won't leave you. Besides, you're a German officer. If anything happens, you can just bully your way through."

"I guess you're right," Carter agreed. He'd almost forgotten their cover. He was dressed as a German colonel and LeBeau was his manservant. "Anything on here edible?"

Now LeBeau was insulted. "Of course!" He scowled at Carter's smirk, but realized it was probably meant to be part of his German character. Hopefully.

A waitress came up to take their order. She glanced at Carter with mild disgust and then at LeBeau. Realizing LeBeau was a Frenchman, her look of disgust deepened. LeBeau growled to himself. She must've thought he was a traitor. And even though he knew he and Carter were just acting, he still felt his heart sink.

"What would you like today Herr Colonel?" the waitress asked through gritted teeth. Carter, who didn't understand a word, just looked at her with wide-eyed confusion, which he quickly changed to a condescending smirk. The waitress rolled her eyes and turned to LeBeau. "Perhaps you would like to speak for your friend?"

LeBeau's scowl deepened as he quickly ordered something he thought Carter could handle. With a dirty look, the waitress disappeared inside the café. Well, LeBeau had to give her some credit. She was pretty brave for being so openly hostile towards what she thought was a German.

"She didn't seem too friendly," Carter observed. LeBeau just shrugged and sat back, absently watching people pass on the street. Then he turned his attention to the café and its patrons. Suddenly, he stiffened, his eyes growing wide. "What's wrong LeBeau?" Carter whispered, looking around for what may have caused LeBeau's sudden change in appearance. LeBeau tried to say something, but found his tongue tied. Rather, he just pointed at one of the waitresses. Carter looked over and raised an eyebrow. "What?"

Again LeBeau tried to say something, but couldn't. He just kept staring, mouth hanging open. "Sacre bleu…" The waitress suddenly turned towards them and he quickly hid his face with his hand. Carter watched him with amused interest. LeBeau ignored him and silently prayed she hadn't seen him.

"Old girlfriend?" Carter asked with small grin. LeBeau shot him a dirty look. Carter was tempted to call her over, but if she recognized LeBeau then it could lead to trouble and that was one thing they didn't need. The waitress finally disappeared inside and LeBeau let out a sigh of relief. "Well?" Carter pressed.

"She is a girlfriend… not an old girlfriend." Carter raised an eyebrow and waited for him to continue. LeBeau sighed. "I was dating her before the war started. We never ended our relationship…"

Carter blinked. "Whoa…"

"Oui, whoa is right. In fact, I still write to her every once and a while."

"So why don't you talk to her?" Carter asked.

"Because I'm supposed to be in a prison camp!" LeBeau said angrily, a little louder than he should've. Luckily, no one noticed. LeBeau clenched his fist. Of all the rotten luck. There'd been many women he'd claimed to love. But this woman was different. With her, he actually meant it. In fact, every once in a while, he entertained thoughts of coming back and marrying her and opening up a little restaurant and having four or five children and… LeBeau cut that train of thought off and shook his head. It definitely wasn't fair. She was so close and he had to hide from her.

"Yeah, I guess that would be tough to explain," Carter winced. "Okay, let's just hope she doesn't get too close to us."

"No. Let's pray she doesn't come," LeBeau corrected. In this case, hope wouldn't be enough.

Any faith LeBeau had in a divine being were quickly shattered when she came out again, carrying a tray with their order on it. "No, no, no," he muttered, turning his face towards the street and shielding it with his hand.

"Danke fraulein," Carter said politely, if not a little arrogantly, as she put their food on the table.

She nodded with a small smile and cast a glance at LeBeau. He willed himself not to look. "Merci mademoiselle."

"C'est rien," she replied. She tilted her head giving him a strange look, before turning her attention to the street. "Are you expecting someone to join you?" she asked, trying to follow his line of sight.

"Oui. Two friends. They should be here shortly."

She nodded. "Would you like to order for them."

LeBeau clenched his fist, willing himself not to look at her, which was getting harder by the moment. Her familiar smell attacked his nose and her voice tickled his ears and sent shivers down his back. "Just some wine… they will not be staying long."

"All right. I will be back," she said, writing something down in her notebook before leaving.

LeBeau let out a sigh of relief. Carter grinned and started to pick at his food. "She's really pretty," Carter grinned. LeBeau said nothing. "So…"

"So what?" LeBeau growled.

"What's her name?" Carter asked.

"Marianne. Marianne Delacroix." He looked up at Carter, who was trying hard not to smile too much. "And it is not funny! If she sees me and recognizes me, which she will, we could get into a lot of trouble!"

"I know," Carter nodded with a serious look. However, the look quickly changed back to a grin. "But it's fun to see you squirm."

"I was not squirming!" LeBeau protested.

Carter just laughed. "LeBeau, I've seen worms on a hook that are stiller than you."

"Maybe we should leave," LeBeau muttered as he moved his food around with his fork. He let out a small sigh. All this had caused him to lose his appetite.

"We can't," Carter reminded him.

LeBeau sighed again. "I know…" Just then, two men approached their table. Both LeBeau and Carter looked up. One of them was wearing a small flower in his buttonhole. Carter raised an eyebrow, looking unimpressed, but LeBeau jumped up and shook their hands. "Bonjour! It is a lovely day, is it not?"

"Perfect day to meet with friends," one of the men agreed.

"Yes, there is not a cloud in the sky," LeBeau said.

"A perfect day to go ballooning," the second man said, completing the code. LeBeau gestured to their seats and the men sat down. He quickly his face again as Marianne came out and put the wine down in front of the new arrivals. She raised an eyebrow, but left quickly with a small smile. The men waited for her to leave before continuing. "Papa Bear sent you?"

LeBeau nodded. "Oui. I am LeBeau, that is Carter." He pointed to Carter who raised his nose.

"I do not care if you talk to them," Carter said arrogantly, loud enough for those around to pick up on it if they were listening, "but be quiet. I would like to enjoy my lunch."

"Jawhol Herr Colonel," LeBeau said meekly. Carter casually took a sip of his wine, trying to act uninterested and pay attention at the same time.

"Pleasure to meet you both," the second man said. "I am Andre Paul and this is Emil Boisselle."

"Do you have the information for us?" LeBeau asked quietly in English, nodding slightly to Carter.

"Oui, but not here," Boisselle confirmed, also switching to English for Carter's benefit. "Our organization has had a few problems with the Gestapo lately. We need to set up a safer place for the transfer."

LeBeau nodded, glancing around. "Do you think the Gestapo followed you here?"

"No. Andre and I haven't been identified as far as we know."

"That's comforting," LeBeau hissed, gulping down a bit of his wine. "All right, where should we meet for the information?"

"There's a theatre a few blocks from here. Tomorrow night there is a play a seven. Meet us around the back when it is done," Boisselle instructed. LeBeau nodded, repeating the information. Then, LeBeau and the other two Frenchmen stood and embraced each other as old friends would, before the Underground agents departed.

"Tomorrow. We have to wait until tomorrow," Carter asked, a bit disappointed.

"It is no problem. Now I will be able to show you some landmarks."

"Hey, yeah," Carter smiled, before polishing off his plate. "That was pretty good."

"Pretty good," LeBeau scoffed. "Americans…"

"Excuse me." LeBeau jumped at the voice and turned, coming face to face with their waitress. Marianne let out a small gasp. "Louis?"

"No, you have mistaken me," LeBeau said, quickly turning away. Of course, she didn't buy it and he knew it.

"Louis," she whispered. "It is you."

LeBeau shook his head, his heart twisting. "No, you have mistaken me," he repeated before jumping to his feet and throwing some money on the table. "We must leave Herr Colonel."

Carter yawned. "Time to see more of this decadent city?" He straightened his jacket and cap before walking off. LeBeau followed, but a hand on his shoulder stopped him.

"I know it's you…"

He winced and looked at Carter, who bit his lip. Now what? LeBeau struggled for a minute. He really should've just walked away, left her there to wonder. He should've… but his heart wouldn't let him. Slowly, he turned and looked up at the woman behind him. "Oui, it is me…"

Marianne let out a strangled cry and hugged him. "But I thought you were a prisoner," she sobbed.

LeBeau winced and tore away from her. "Shh!" She blinked in surprise and he quickly took her hand and led her away. "Quiet, someone might hear you."

"I don't understand. Did you escape?"

LeBeau squirmed, trying to come up with an answer. "Sort of…"

"But Louis, how? When? Why were you ignoring me?" she asked urgently.

"I am sorry. But you must understand…"

"I do. Oh I do. I'm just so happy to see you again mon cher." And with that, she wrapped her arms around him and planted a kiss on his lips.

A few moments later, Carter cleared his throat. LeBeau broke away and turned to his friend and then back to Marianne. "I must go. The colonel there is the reason I'm out," he said quickly. Marianne glance up at Carter and inspected him head to toe. She grimaced slightly before turning back to her love.

"But Louis, there must be some way…"

LeBeau looked back at Carter, his eyes pleading with the American to come up with some way to leave him with Marianne. Carter bit his lip, thinking the same thing. Finally he puffed out his chest and raised his nose into the air. "I can find the Eiffel Tower without you. Go spend a few hours with that…" Carter waved his hand, not sure whether he should say something rude, as a German would, or not, "woman… Meet me back at the hotel. And if you are not back before dark, I will have every soldier in Paris tear the city apart, looking for you." And with that, Carter clicked his heels and walked away.

LeBeau scrunched his nose. It hadn't been very good, but it was good enough. At least for Marianne. Had he said that in front of the Gestapo or some other German, it probably would've given them away. Shaking his head, he turned back to Marianne. "He's a bit crazy…" he smiled. She didn't respond. Instead she watched Carter leave, cocking her head to the side. Then, suddenly, she laughed and ruffled his hair.

"Oh Louis…"

* * *

"Oh Louis," Marianne mumbled between kisses.

Suddenly, the old grandfather clock in the corner of Marianne's living room chimed eight times. Louis grudgingly broke away from Marianne and glanced at it and then his watch. "Sacre chat, I've got to go."

Marianne giggled. "Sacre chat? What on earth?"

"Holy cats. My friend-" LeBeau cut himself off and shook his head. "Just something I picked up."

"In your prison camp?" Marianne asked, raising an eyebrow.

LeBeau wriggled uncomfortably. "Well, uh…"

Marianne sighed and flopped back against the sofa and absently played at LeBeau's collar. "I don't understand. How did you get out of there?"

"That German is my Kommandant. Colonel… Schultz… Anyway, he wanted to go to Paris but needed a tour guide, so he dragged me along."

"That's a little unorthodox, isn't it?" Marianne asked. LeBeau answered with a shrug. "Funny… I thought you would be in a Luftstalag… That colonel looks like he's with the Heer."

LeBeau winced, but tried to hide it. "Oh Marianne, I've missed you," he said, quickly changing the subject.

Marianna smiled and cuddled closer to him. "Me too." She wrapped his hair and around her finger. "Louis?"

"Mmmm?" LeBeau replied, going back to kissing her.

"Who were those men at the café? I didn't recognize them…"

LeBeau stiffened. Marianne had been asking a lot of strange, if not natural, questions. "Old friends," LeBeau mumbled.

"I thought I knew all your friends."

"I knew them before I met you ma chere," he said quickly.

Marianne just nodded and dropped the subject, instead focusing on making up for lost time. "How long will you be in Paris?" she asked as she nuzzled his neck.

"We will probably leave the morning after tomorrow."

Marianne sighed and rested her head against his chest. "So soon?"

"I'm afraid so," LeBeau sighed.

She looked up at him. "Will you come back tomorrow night?"

"I don't know. The Kommandant wants me to take him to a show tomorrow night at seven. It'll be too late after that…"

"Then come before," Marianne pleaded. "Oh please. I have not seen you in years!"

LeBeau grabbed her, held her close and kissed her. "Of course. I will come. Don't worry."

* * *

"I don't know LeBeau. Do you really think it's such a good idea?" Carter asked as he fiddled with the buttons on his shirt. "I know you like her and all-"

"Not like! I love her!" LeBeau corrected as he flopped down onto his bed in their hotel room. "She is beautiful, smart, funny…"

"Sure, I get it. I'm just saying…" Carter squirmed. "It's just… all those questions she asked you. Are you sure you can trust her?"

LeBeau scowled and willed himself not to punch Carter for saying something like that. "Of course I trust her! Those were all natural questions. How would you feel if your boyfriend randomly popped up after being in a prison camp for three years?"

"You're right, I guess. I don't know. I'm just trying to be cautious. We're a long way from home you know-"

"Maybe you are, but this is my home."

"You know what I mean," Carter said, somewhat exasperated. "We're a long way from Stalag 13 and Colonel Hogan. If something goes wrong-"

LeBeau threw his pillow at Carter. "Nothing is going to happen! And if it did, we don't need le colonel. Now stop worrying and go to sleep." And with that, he turned out the lights and curled into his bed.

Carter sighed and flopped down onto his own bed. "You can't stay here you know."

LeBeau grimaced. "I know that! But nothing says I can't enjoy myself before we go back to Hell."

"Aw come on, it's not that bad."

LeBeau grunted and rolled over, away from his friend. Carter didn't understand. He didn't understand what it felt like to be so far and yet so close to home. Escaping to France was a lot easier than going back to America. Carter was pretty much stuck at Stalag 13. Or at least Europe. But LeBeau could go home just like that. But he foolishly chose not to.

"Doesn't matter what I say, you're going to go see her tomorrow, aren't you?"

"Oui," LeBeau said defiantly.

"And what am I supposed to do?"

"Be a Kraut colonel. Go see the Eiffel Tower. Do whatever, I don't care. Just don't let the Resistance shoot you."

* * *

"I have to go," LeBeau mumbled, half-heartedly trying to tear himself away from Marianne.

"No you don't."

"It's almost seven. I have just ten minutes to get to the theatre."

Marianne glanced over his shoulder to the clock. "You can make it there in five."

"It's by your café. It'll take me ten minutes."

"The Lamont Theatre?" Marianne asked.

"Mmmhmm."

"You can get there in five."

LeBeau stopped arguing. Five minutes later, he grudgingly got up and grabbed his coat. "Now I must go."

Marianne followed him to the door. "Promise to come by tomorrow?"

"Promise," LeBeau said with a kiss. Giving her one last, longing look, LeBeau slipped out the door. Racing out of the building, he quickly made his was down the street and towards the theatre to meet Carter.

He didn't notice the two men, dressed in brown trench coats and wearing black fedoras, following him at a reasonable distance.

LeBeau and Carter quickly made their way through the crowds that were filing out of the theatre. Looking around to make sure no one noticed, the slipped into the side alley and made their way behind the theatre.

"Boisselle?" LeBeau hissed.

"Here," a voice called, as Boisselle and Paul stepped out of the shadows.

LeBeau went up to them. "Got the plans?" Paul nodded and pulled out a package, handing it to LeBeau.

"HALT!" a new voice shouted. All four men froze and turned. A beam of light shone back at them as two men stepped into their view. "Gestapo."

LeBeau felt his blood turn to ice. He glanced up at Carter, who went decidedly pale. Suddenly, the American turned red and began to shake.

"What is the meaning of this?!" Carter hollered. "Do you know who I am?"

LeBeau smiled. Carter might've been a little goofy, but he sure knew how to play a Kraut. He turned back to the Gestapo to see their reactions. His heart sank when all he saw were smirks.

"You are a traitor," one of the Gestapo men said coolly. "These men are with the Underground."

"This is an outrage!" Carter yelled. "I'll have you sent to the Russian Front! I'll-" Without warning, Carter reached for his handgun. He even got off a shot too, hitting one of the Gestapo men, before a burst of bullets sounded from behind them. A moment later, several more Germans emerged from the darkness.

LeBeau blinked in surprise and looked at Carter, who was equally surprised as he clutched his chest. It took a moment for LeBeau to realize that Carter had been shot. The American fell to the ground like a ton of bricks. "Carter!" LeBeau knelt down and shook his friend. Carter just looked at him, still shocked by the whole turn of events. He tried to say something, but couldn't form any words.

"Get up," the Gestapo man barked, grabbing LeBeau by the collar and pulling him up as the other Germans surrounded them.

LeBeau just looked from him to Carter. "Carter…"

"Don't you mean Colonel Schultz?"

LeBeau stiffened and turned. Marianne smirked slightly and came up to him. "Marianne? But- but- I don't understand."

"I'm with the Gestapo," Marianne said simply.

"No!" LeBeau shouted. "I don't believe it!" He glanced back down at Carter, who was frighteningly still. "How could you?!"

Marianne shrugged nonchalantly. "I like to be on the winning side. The Germans can be very persuasive. And working for them pays better than the Resistance."

LeBeau could not believe his ears. It was not possible. It just wasn't. Marianne was the love of his life. She couldn't have gone over to the Germans. And yet, there she was, eyeing Carter with disdain and smirking at LeBeau for his foolishness. "We've been following these two men for quiet a while," Marianne explained, gesturing to Boisselle and Paul, who were being handcuffed. "But when I saw you at the café, I knew there was more to them than we originally thought."

Hatred bubbled up inside LeBeau. "I won't tell you anything!"

Marianne waved her hand in the air. "You've told me plenty already. Besides, I have nothing left to ask you. I'll leave that to men far more capable. And believe me, their tactics are not as pleasant as mine."

Rough hands grabbed LeBeau, twisting his arms back and handcuffing him. Before they led him away, he shared a cold, hateful glance with Marianne. Then, he looked at Carter and then his captors. The Gestapo man Carter had shot came up behind him, holding his shoulder and glaring at LeBeau. LeBeau paled.

Carter had been the lucky one.


	8. Unrepentant

Death.

Hung by the neck until dead.

Hochstetter woke with a start, wiping sweat off his forehead. No, it couldn't have been real. It must've been a dream, he told himself firmly. But one glance around his tiny cell dashed that glimmer of hope on the rocks of reality. He hadn't been dreaming. The sentence was as real as the thick cement walls that trapped him.

Hochstetter let out a frustrated growl and flopped his head against the wall. As he closed his eyes, his mind wandered back to the morning before. The courtroom had been more solemn on the early morning than he'd seen it since his trial had begun. He'd known what his sentence was to be. He'd known ever since Hogan had visited him.

Death.

Hung by the neck until dead.

Still, the words had hit him like a bucket of ice water. He'd stiffened with shock, like a deer caught in the headlights of a car. And then he'd stood and yelled about the injustice of it all. What had he said exactly? The words escaped his memory, but whatever he'd said, it had not been enough to sway any opinions.

Of course not, he thought with a scowl. Those Americans understood nothing. They pretended to be the champions of justice, delivering the Germans from an evil government, but what of their sins?

Yes, what about Hogan? All high and mighty, getting angry over a few men? And what of the men he had purposely killed during all his sabotage missions? All the civilians?

Hochstetter gritted his teeth, becoming angrier and angrier. If the war had lasted another month- no, another week or two was all he would have needed to arrest Hogan- then that smug American would've been in his position, waiting helplessly while Hochstetter himself built the gallows.

He would've liked that. To see Hogan in his position. On more occasions than he could count or remember, he'd entertained the idea of watching Hogan being shot or hung for espionage. But another glance at the walls brought Hochstetter the bitter truth. He would be the one to hang, while Hogan watched.

Overcome with rage at the thought, Hochstetter jumped up and slammed his fists into the wall.

Damn Hogan.

He could just see Hogan standing silently with a grim smirk as he marched to the gallows.

Hochstetter wondered if he'd still be a prisoner awaiting death if he'd left Hogan's men alone.

No, Hogan would've come after him anyway. Those two men were just the last nails in the coffin.

Hochstetter smiled. Well, at the very least, he had been able to take something precious away from Hogan. Not as precious as his life, but the lives of two of his men were close enough. The grin deepened when he thought of the hurt look on Hogan's face when he had brought those two up on their last meeting. Yes, the guilt would follow Hogan the rest of his life and slowly eat away at him. What a comforting thought.

But not comforting enough.

Death.

Hung by the neck until dead.

Hochstetter shivered. What had he done wrong? The answer still eluded him. Nothing, was all he could come up with. Nothing but hinder Hogan and his operation. The Americans had blathered on and on about the victims of his interrogations and torture. But they did not seem to grasp the concept that those 'victims' had been enemies of the Third Reich. Hochstetter had merely used any and all means to gain information from them in order to stop more traitors and protect his country and his leaders.

Why could they not see that?!

Hochstetter growled and started to pace, smacking his hand against his thigh. It didn't matter. Hogan would've come up with any excuse to see him executed. Hochstetter had tried to do the same to him many times while Hogan was a prisoner, but somehow, the American always managed to appear innocent of any wrongdoing.

Hochstetter remembered the triumph he'd felt when Hogan had broken into Gestapo HQ to rescue his men. Even as the American had held a gun to him, he'd still felt a strange sense of achievement and victory. He'd been right all along, and that had proved it. And he would've kept that feeling right to the death- if Hogan had killed him right away. Instead, Hogan had taken him prisoner. He couldn't think of anything more humiliating. The anger and humiliation only became worse when he discovered just how extensive Hogan's operation was. Even he had never imagined it to be so diverse. Tunnels, machine shops, radios, a lab for explosives- the list went on. And all right under Kommandant Klink's nose.

Hochstetter's anger quickly shifted to the Kommandant of Stalag 13. The thought that perhaps that imbecile was a part of the whole operation grated his nerves. That fool? That fool had managed to stop any attempts Hochstetter had made to arrest Hogan and uncover the operation?! No! Hochstetter refused to believe it- it only made the humiliation worse. If Klink had been semi-competent, or perhaps _behind_ the operation in some way and only acted foolish, then he would be appeased. But Hochstetter suspected that Klink really had no idea, and that by some dumb luck, or perhaps Hogan's manipulation, he had managed to stand between Hochstetter and his quarry.

At that moment, Hochstetter's anger was so intense that he found himself going mad with no one to take it out on. Letting out a loud cry of hateful fury, Hochstetter slammed his fists against the wall and stomped his feet.

After a few minutes, he stopped and took a few deep breaths. Wouldn't Hogan have loved to see that, he thought bitterly. He'd probably laugh to see Hochstetter so upset. Well, that simply wouldn't do. Setting his jaw, Hochstetter calmly sat on the edge of his bed, taking a few deep breaths. He would not give Hogan the satisfaction. Closing his eyes, he pictured his long walk to the gallows. He would be calm, collected, portraying righteous indignation- for he had done nothing wrong. Oh wouldn't that drive Hogan mad?! Hochstetter smirked at the thought. If he had to die, at least he would be able to get the better of Hogan one last time.

Oh yes, he could see the hatred in Hogan's eyes when he refused to admit guilt. That would tear at the American's soul for a long time too. The thought made Hochstetter smirk with excitement. Oh yes, he would project innocence and as he passed Hogan, he would make a remark about one of his men and really set him off.

Hochstetter sighed in content and flopped back onto his bed.

Suddenly, a horrible thought entered his mind. He hadn't seen Hogan at his sentencing. Had he? Hochstetter racked his mind. He didn't think he even looked for him in the crowd. He'd been too concerned and shocked with the sentence. But as he thought of it, the more convinced he became that Hogan hadn't been present.

What did that mean?

Hochstetter jumped up and began to pace. Perhaps Hogan was simply a coward and couldn't bear the guilt of condemning an innocent man. No, Hochstetter waved the thought aside. Somehow, that did not seem very likely.

A more frighteningly likely scenario was that Hogan was plotting revenge in another way. Perhaps the American could not stand the thought of Hochstetter being dealt with quickly. Maybe he was planning on kidnapping him so that he could take his revenge slowly. Hochstetter shivered. His mind traveled back to the many interrogation and torture sessions he'd overseen. Throughout his career he'd experimented with many different techniques, all of them painful. Would Hogan do any of those things to him? No… Hogan would not be so easy on him, Hochstetter decided as his insides bunched up.

What was he planning?!

The thought pounded on Hochstetter's brain. It was the story of his life, really. He was always trying to figure out what Hogan was planning, but could never quite come up with the right answer. Only time, and Hogan, would reveal what he was up to. Hochstetter's skin crawled at the possibilities.

Suddenly, Hochstetter heard a set of keys jangling in the lock outside his door. Well, this was it. He was going to find out what Hogan's latest deadly scheme was.

Hochstetter straightened himself out as well as he could as the door opened. He glared at his guard before tossing his nose into the air, giving the sergeant no more attention. He grinned to himself when he heard the American growl. He wondered if his air of superiority would have the same effect on Hogan. Oh, he hoped so.

"Come on Hochstetter, time to go," the burly sergeant said darkly as he led Hochstetter out.

Hochstetter growled, but allowed himself to be led out of the building and into a waiting car. Though he tried to hide it, he nervously watched through the windows, waiting for Hogan to jump out at any moment and stop the car to take custody of him.

But that never happened.

Instead, the car arrived safely at its destination. Still, Hochstetter remained paranoid, even as he was led into another building. He felt a strange sense of calm as he entered the courtyard where a small group of people had gathered.

So, he would be hung. Somehow, that didn't seem as chilling as it had before.

Hochstetter scanned the crowd as he was led towards the gallows, tuning out the man who was announcing him, searching for his foe.

He wasn't there.

Hochstetter stopped dead in his tracks, and stood firm even as his escorts tried to prod him along.

There were his men, but where was Hogan?

He shot Hogan's men a curious glance, but they only glared back at him. Since Hogan had first captured him, none of them had been overly friendly- the little one had more than once threatened to kill him- but never had he seen such hatred from anyone other than Hogan. But now, the two looked at him with such intense fury, that he actually felt fear.

But where was Hogan? What was he up to?

With another push from his escorts, Hochstetter stumbled forward. Suddenly, his demise became more and more real to him as he approached the gallows. He hesitated on the steps, casting another look behind him to try and spot Hogan, before being led up.

He seemed strangely detached from himself as the noose was put around his neck. It still didn't seem possible, yet here he was.

"Any last words?"

Hochstetter snorted at the man's request. Last words? What did they expect him to say? "No words… a question," Hochstetter growled through his teeth, his eyes piercing through the crowd until they fell on Hogan's two men. "Where is Hogan?"

The little Frenchman clenched his fists and took a few steps forward before the American pulled him back. The little one seethed with anger, while the black sergeant stood stoically, but with a dangerous look in his eye that could've rivalled Hogan's.

"Where is Hogan?" Hochstetter demanded, turning to his escorts and the hangman.

Finally, one of his escorts cleared his throat. "Colonel Hogan was killed the day before yesterday by a booby trap," he said grimly.

Hochstetter blinked. Hogan? Dead? Booby-trapped? It took a moment for it all to register.

And when it did, Hochstetter slowly grinned.

The End


End file.
